:HAD™LINE 

mmmmmm'mmmmmmKimmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmimmtmmmamm 

JO  SEPH    CO  NRAD 


4 


THE  SHADOW  LINE 


Books  by  the  Same  Author 


ALIIAYER  S  FOLLY 

FALK,  AND  OTHER  STORIES 

LORD  JIM :  A  ROM,VNCE 

THE  MIRROR  OF  THE  SEA 

THE  >aGGER  OF  THE  NARCISSUS 

NOSTROMO :  A  TALE  OF  THE  SEABOABD 

AN  OUTCAST  OF  THE  ISULNDS 

A  PERSONAL  RECORD 

THE  SECRET  AGENT 

A  SET  OF  SIX 

TALES  OF  UNREST 

'tWTXT  land  and  SEA 

TYPHOON 

UNDER  WESTERN  EYES 

VICTORY 

WITHIN  THE  TIDES 

youth: a  NARRATIVE 

WITH  FORD  M.  HUEFFER 

THE  inheritors:  an  EXTRAVAGANT  STOBY 

romance:  a  novel 


THE 
SHADOW  LINE 

A  CONFESSION 

BY 
JOSEPH   CONRAD 


"Worthy  of  my  undying  regard  " 


GARDEN    CITY  NEW    YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 
1922 


COPYRIGHT,  I917,  BY 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED,    INCLUDING    THAT    OF    TRANSLATION 

INTO    FOREIGN    LANGUAGES,    INCLUDING    THE    SCANDINAVIAN 

COPYRIGHT,  I916,  BY  METROPOLITAN  MAGAZINE  COMPANY 

PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES 

AT 

THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS,  GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


To 
BORYS 

AND  ALL  OTHERS  WHO,  LIKE  HIMSELF,  HAVE  CROSSED 

IN  EARLY  YOUTH  THE  SHADOW  LINE  OF 

THEIR  GENERATION  WITH  LOVE 


PART  ONE 


THE  SHADOW  LINE 

—  D' autre  fois,  calme  plat,  grand  miroir 
De  mon  desespoir. 

— Baudelaike 


Only  the  young  have  such  moments.  I  don't 
mean  the  very  young.  No.  The  very  young  have, 
properly  speaking,  no  moments.  It  is  the  privi- 
lege of  early  youth  to  live  in  advance  of  its  days 
in  all  the  beautiful  continuity  of  hope  which 
knows  no  pauses  and  no  introspection. 

One  closes  behind  one  the  little  gate  of  mere 
boyishness — and  enters  an  enchanted  garden.  Its 
very  shades  glow  with  promise.  Every  turn  of  the 
path  has  its  seduction.  And  it  isn't  because  it 
is  an  undiscovered  country.  One  knows  well 
enough  that  all  mankind  had  streamed  that  way. 
It  is  the  charm  of  universal  experience  from  which 
one  expects  an  uncommon  or  personal  sensation — 
a  bit  of  one's  own. 

One  goes  on  recognizing  the  landmarks  of  the 


4  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

predecessors,  excited,  amused,  taking  the  hard 
luck  and  the  good  luck  together — the  kicks  and 
the  halfpence,  as  the  saying  is — the  picturesque 
common  lot  that  holds  so  many  possibilities  for 
the  deserving  or  perhaps  for  the  lucky.  Yes. 
One  goes  on.  And  the  time,  too,  goes  on — till  one 
perceives  ahead  a  shadow-line  warning  one  that 
the  region  of  early  youth,  too,  must  be  left  be- 
hind. 

This  is  the  period  of  life  in  which  such  moments 
of  which  I  have  spoken  are  likely  to  come.  What 
moments?  Why,  the  moments  of  boredom,  of 
weariness,  of  dissatisfaction.  Rash  moments. 
I  mean  moments  when  the  still  young  are  inclined 
to  commit  rash  actions,  such  as  getting  married 
suddenly  or  else  throwing  up  a  job  for  no  rea- 
son. 

This  is  not  a  marriage  story.  It  wasn't  so  bad 
as  that  with  me.  My  action,  rash  as  it  was,  had 
more  the  character  of  divorce — almost  of  deser* 
tion.  For  no  reason  on  which  a  sensible  person 
could  put  a  finger  I  threw  up  my  job — chucked 
my  berth — left  the  ship  of  which  the  worst  that 
could  be  said  was  that  she  was  a  steamship  and 
therefore,  perhaps,  not  entitled  to  that  blind 
loyalty  which.     .     .     .     However,  it's  no  use  try- 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  S 

ing  to  put  a  gloss  on  what  even  at  the  time  I  myself 
half  suspected  to  be  a  caprice. 

It  was  in  an  Eastern  port.  She  was  an  Eastern 
ship,  inasmuch  as  then  she  belonged  to  that  port. 
She  traded  among  dark  islands  on  a  blue  reef- 
scarred  sea,  with  the  Red  Ensign  over  the  taffrail 
and  at  her  masthead  a  house-flag,  also  red,  but 
with  a  green  border  and  with  a  white  crescent  in 
it.  For  an  Arab  owned  her,  and  a  Syed  at  that. 
Hence  the  green  border  on  the  flag.  He  was  the 
head  of  a  great  House  of  Straits  Arabs,  but  as 
loyal  a  subject  of  the  complex  British  Empire  as 
you  could  find  east  of  the  Suez  Canal.  World 
politics  did  not  trouble  him  at  all,  but  he  had  a 
great  occult  power  amongst  his  own  people. 

It  was  all  one  to  us  who  owned  the  ship.  He 
had  to  employ  white  men  in  the  shipping  part  of 
his  business,  and  many  of  those  he  so  employed 
had  never  set  eyes  on  him  from  the  first  to  the 
last  day.  I  myself  saw  him  but  once,  quite 
accidentally  on  a  wharf — an  old,  dark  little  man 
blind  in  one  eye,  in  a  snowy  robe  and  yellow 
slippers.  He  was  having  his  hand  severely  Idssed 
by  a  crowd  of  Malay  pilgrims  to  whom  he  had 
done  some  favour,  in  the  way  of  food  and  money. 
His  alms-giving,  I  have  heard,  was  most  exten- 


6  THE  SHADOW  UNE 

sive,  covering  almost  the  whole  Archipelago.  For 
isn't  it  said  that  "The  charitable  man  is  the  friend 
of  Allah"? 

Excellent  (and  picturesque)  Arab  owner,  about 
whom  one  needed  not  to  trouble  one's  head,  a 
most  excellent  Scottish  ship — for  she  was  that 
from  the  keel  up — excellent  sea-boat,  easy  to 
keep  clean,  most  handy  in  every  way,  and  if  it 
had  not  been  for  her  internal  propulsion,  worthy 
of  any  man's  love,  I  cherish  to  this  day  a  profound 
respect  for  her  memory.  As  to  the  kind  of  trade 
she  was  engaged  in  and  the  character  of  my  ship- 
mates, I  could  not  have  been  happier  if  I  had  had 
the  life  and  the  men  made  to  my  order  by  a 
benevolent  Enchanter. 

And  suddenly  I  left  all  this.  I  left  it  in  that, 
to  us,  inconsequential  manner  in  which  a  bird 
flies  away  from  a  comfortable  branch.  It  was  as 
though  all  unknowing  I  had  heard  a  whisper  or 
seen  something.  Well — perhaps!  One  day  I  was 
perfectly  right  and  the  next  everything  was  gone 
— glamour,  flavour,  interest,  contentment — every- 
thing. It  was  one  of  these  moments,  you  know. 
The  green  sickness  of  late  youth  descended  on  me 
and  carried  me  off.  Carried  me  off  that  ship,  I 
mean. 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  7 

We  were  only  four  white  men  on  board,  with  a 
large  crew  of  Kalashes  and  two  Malay  petty 
officers.  The  Captain  stared  hard  as  if  wondering 
what  ailed  me.  But  he  was  a  sailor,  and  he,  too, 
had  been  yomig  at  one  time.  Presently  a  smile 
came  to  lurk  under  his  thick  iron-gray  moustache, 
and  he  observed  that,  of  course,  if  I  felt  I  must 
go  he  couldn't  keep  me  by  main  force.  And  it  was 
arranged  that  I  should  be  paid  off  the  next  morn- 
ing. As  I  was  going  out  of  his  cabin  he  added 
suddenly,  in  a  peculiar  wistful  tone,  that  he  hoped 
I  would  find  what  I  was  so  anxious  to  go  and  look 
for.  A  soft,  cryptic  utterance  which  seemed  to 
reach  deeper  than  any  diamond-hard  tool  could 
have  done.     I  do  beHeve  he  understood  my  case. 

But  the  second  engineer  attacked  me  differently. 
He  was  a  sturdy  young  Scot,  with  a  smooth  face  and 
light  eyes.  His  honest  red  countenance  emerged 
out  of  the  engine-room  companion  and  then  the 
whole  robust  man,  with  shirt  sleeves  turned  up, 
wiping  slowly  the  massive  fore-arms  with  a  lump 
of  cotton-waste.  And  his  light  eyes  expressed 
bitter  distaste,  as  though  our  friendship  had  turned 
to  ashes.  He  said  weightily:  '*0h!  Aye!  I've 
been  thinking  it  was  about  time  for  you  to  run 
away  home  and  get  married  to  some  silly  girl." 


8  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

It  was  tacitly  understood  in  the  port  that  John 
Nieven  was  a  fierce  misogynist;  and  the  absurd 
character  of  the  sally  convinced  me  that  he  meant 
to  be  nasty — very  nasty — had  meant  to  say  the 
most  crushing  thing  he  could  think  of.  My  laugh 
sounded  deprecatory.  Nobody  but  a  friend  could 
be  so  angry  as  that.  I  became  a  little  crestfallen. 
Our  chief  engineer  also  took  a  characteristic  view 
of  my  action,  but  in  a  kindlier  spirit. 

He  was  young,  too,  but  very  thin,  and  w^th  a 
mist  of  fluffy  brown  beard  all  round  his  haggard 
face.  All  day  long,  at  sea  or  in  harbour,  he  could 
be  seen  walking  hastily  up  and  down  the  after- 
deck,  wearing  an  intense,  spiritually  rapt  ex- 
pression, which  was  caused  by  a  perpetual  con- 
sciousness of  unpleasant  physical  sensations  in 
his  internal  economy.  For  he  was  a  confirmed 
dyspeptic.  His  view  of  my  case  was  very  simple. 
He  said  it  was  nothing  but  deranged  liver.  Of 
course!  He  suggested  I  should  stay  for  another 
trip  and  meantime  dose  myself  with  a  certain 
patent  medicine  in  which  his  own  belief  was  ab- 
solute. "I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I'll  buy  you 
two  bottles,  out  of  mj'^  own  pocket.  There.  I 
can't  say  fairer  than  that,  can  I?" 

I  believe  he  would  have  perpetrated  the  atrocity 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  9 

(or  generosity)  at  the  merest  sign  of  weakening 
on  my  part.  By  that  time,  however,  I  was  more 
discontented,  disgusted,  and  dogged  than  ever. 
The  past  eighteen  months,  so  full  of  new  and  varied 
experience,  appeared  a  dreary,  prosaic  waste  of 
days.  I  felt — how  shall  I  express  it.'' — that  there 
was  no  truth  to  be  got  out  of  them. 

What  truth  ?  I  should  have  been  hard  put  to  it  to 
explain.  Probably,  if  pressed,  I  would  have  burst 
into  tears  simply.     I  was  young  enough  for  that. 

Next  day  the  Captain  and  I  transacted  our  busi- 
ness in  the  Harbour  Office.  It  was  a  lofty,  big, 
cool,  white  room,  where  the  screened  light  of  day 
glowed  serenely.  Everybody  in  it — the  officials, 
the  public — were  in  white.  Only  the  heavy 
polished  desks  gleamed  darkly  in  a  central  avenue, 
and  some  papers  lying  on  them  were  blue.  Enor- 
mous punkahs  sent  from  on  high  a  gentle  draught 
through  that  immaculate  interior  and  upon  our 
perspiring  heads. 

The  official  behind  the  desk  we  approached 
grinned  amiably  and  kept  it  up  till,  in  answer  to 
his  perfunctory  question,  "Sign  off  and  on  again?" 
my  Captain  answered,  "  No !  Signing  off  for  good." 
And  then  his  grin  vanished  in  sudden  solemnity. 
He  did  not  look  at  me  again  till  he  handed  me  my 


10  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

papers  with  a  sorrowful  expression,  as  if  they  ha( 
been  my  passports  for  Hades. 

\Miile  I  was  putting  them  away  he  murmure( 
some  question  to  the  Captain,  and  I  heard  th 
latter  answer  good-humouredly : 

"No.     He  leaves  us  to  go  home." 

"Oh!"  the  other  exclaimed,  nodding  mournful]; 
over  my  sad  condition. 

I  didn't  know  him  outside  the  official  building 
but  he  leaned  forward  over  the  desk  to  shake  hand 
with  me,  compassionately,  as  one  would  T\ath  som 
poor  devil  going  out  to  be  hanged ;  and  I  am  af raii 
I  performed  my  part  ungraciously,  in  the  hardenei 
manner  of  an  impenitent  criminal. 

No  homeward-bound  mail-boat  was  due  fo 
three  or  four  days.  Being  now  a  man  without  j 
ship,  and  having  for  a  time  broken  my  connectio: 
with  the  sea — ^become,  in  fact,  a  mere  potentia 
passenger — it  would  have  been  more  appropriat 
perhaps  if  I  had  gone  to  stay  at  an  hotel.  Ther 
it  was,  too,  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  Harbou 
Office,  low,  but  somehow  palatial,  displaying  it 
white,  piUared  paviKons  surrounded  by  trim  gras 
plots.  I  would  have  felt  a  passenger  indeed  ii 
there!  I  gave  it  a  hostile  glance  and  directed  m; 
steps  toward  the  Officers"  Sailors'  Home, 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  11 

I  walked  in  the  sunshine,  disregarding  it,  and  in 
the  shade  of  the  big  trees  on  the  esplanade  without 
enjoying  it.  The  heat  of  the  tropical  East  de- 
scended through  the  leafy  boughs,  enveloping  my 
thinly-clad  body,  clinging  to  my  rebelHous  dis- 
content, as  if  to  rob  it  of  its  freedom. 

The  Officers'  Home  was  a  large  bungalow  with 
a  wide  verandah  and  a  curiously  suburban-looking 
little  garden  of  bushes  and  a  few  trees  between  it 
and  the  street.  That  institution  partook  some- 
what of  the  character  of  a  residential  club,  but 
with  a  slightly  Governmental  flavour  about  it, 
because  it  was  administered  by  the  Harbour  Office. 
Its  manager  was  officially  styled  Chief  Steward. 
He  was  an  unhappy,  wizened  little  man,  who  if  put 
into  a  jockey's  rig  would  have  looked  the  part  to 
perfection.  But  it  was  obvious  that  at  some  time 
or  other  in  his  Ufe,  in  some  capacity  or  other,  he 
had  been  connected  with  the  sea.  Possibly  in  the 
comprehensive  capacity  of  a  failure. 

I  should  have  thought  his  employment  a  very 
easy  one,  but  he  used  to  affirm  for  some  reason  or 
other  that  his  job  would  be  the  death  of  him  some 
day.  Itwas  rather  mysterious.  Perhaps  everything 
naturally  was  too  much  trouble  for  him.  He  cer- 
tainly seemed  to  hate  having  people  in  the  house. 


1?  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

On  entering  it  I  thought  he  must  be  feeling 
pleased.  It  was  as  still  as  a  tomb.  I  could  see  no 
one  in  the  living  rooms;  and  the  verandah,  too, 
was  empty,  except  for  a  man  at  the  far  end  dozing 
prone  in  a  long  chair.  At  the  noise  of  my  footsteps 
he  opened  one  horribly  fish-like  eye.  He  was  a 
stranger  to  me.  I  retreated  from  there,  and  cross- 
ing the  dining  room — a  very  bare  apartment  with 
a  motionless  punkah  hanging  over  the  centre  table 
— I  knocked  at  a  door  labelled  in  black  letters: 
"Chief  Steward." 

The  answer  to  my  knock  being  a  vexed  and  dole- 
ful plaint:  "Oh,  dear!  Oh,  dear!  What  is  it 
now?  "     I  went  in  at  once. 

It  was  a  strange  room  to  find  in  the  tropics. 
Twihght  and  stufl&ness  reigned  in  there.  The 
fellow  had  hung  enormously  ample,  dusty,  cheap 
lace  curtains  over  his  wdndows,  which  were  shut. 
Piles  of  cardboard  boxes,  such  as  milliners  and 
dressmakers  use  in  Europe,  cumbered  the  comers; 
and  by  some  means  he  had  procured  for  himself 
the  sort  of  furniture  that  might  have  come  out  of 
a  respectable  parlour  in  the  East  End  of  London 
— a  horsehair  sofa,  arm-chairs  of  the  same.  I 
glimpsed  grimy  antimacassars  scattered  over  that 
horrid  upholstery,   which  was  awe-inspiring,   in- 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  13 

somuch  that  one  could  not  guess  what  mysterious 
accident,  need,  or  fancy  had  collected  it  there. 
Its  owner  had  taken  off  his  tunic,  and  in  white 
trousers  and  a  thin,  short-sleeved  singlet  prowled 
behind  the  chair-backs  nursing  his  meagre  el- 
bows. 

An  exclamation  of  dismay  escaped  him  when  he 
heard  that  I  had  come  for  a  stay ;  but  he  could  not 
deny  that  there  were  plenty  of  vacant  rooms. 

"Very  well.  Can  you  give  me  the  one  I  had 
before.''" 

He  emitted  a  faint  moan  from  behind  a  pile  of 
cardboard  boxes  on  the  table,  which  might  have 
contained  gloves  or  handkerchies  or  neckties.  I 
wonder  what  the  fellow  did  keep  in  them.''  There 
was  a  smell  of  decaying  coral,  or  Oriental  dust 
of  zoological  specimens  in  that  den  of  his.  I 
could  only  see  the  top  of  his  head  and  his  un- 
happy eyes  levelled  at  me  over  the  barrier. 

"It's  only  for  a  couple  of  days,"  I  said,  intending 
to  cheer  him  up. 

"Perhaps  you  would  like  to  pay  in  advance.'*" 
he  suggested  eagerly. 

"Certainly  not!"  I  burst  out  directly  I  could 
speak.  "Never  heard  of  such  a  thing!  This  is 
the  most  infernal  cheek.     .     .     ," 


14  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

Ho  had  seized  his  head  in  both  hands — a  gesture 
of  despair  which  checked  my  indignation. 

"Oh,  dear!  Oh,  dear!  Don't  fly  out  like  this. 
I  am  asking  everybody." 

"I  don't  beheve  it,"  I  said  bluntly. 

"Well,  I  am  going  to.  And  if  you  gentlemen 
all  agreed  to  pay  in  advance  I  could  make  Hamil- 
ton pay  up,  too.  He's  always  turning  up  ashore 
dead  broke,  and  even  when  he  has  some  money 
he  won't  settle  his  bills.  I  don't  know  what  to  do 
with  him.  He  swears  at  me  and  tells  me  I  can't 
chuck  a  white  man  out  into  the  street  here.  So  if 
you  only  would.     .     .     ." 

I  was  amazed.  Incredulous,  too.  I  suspected 
the  fellow  of  gratuitous  impertinence.  I  told  him 
with  marked  emphasis  that  I  would  see  him  and 
Hamilton  hanged  first,  and  requested  him  to  con- 
duct me  to  my  room  with  no  more  of  his  nonsense. 
He  produced  then  a  key  from  somewhere  and  led 
the  way  out  of  his  lair,  giving  me  a  vicious  sidelong 
look  in  passing. 

"Any  one  I  know  staying  here?"  I  asked  him 
before  he  left  my  room. 

He  had  recovered  his  usual  pained  impatient 
tone,  and  said  that  Captain  Giles  was  there,  back 
from  a  Solo  Sea  trip.     Two  other  guests  were  stay- 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  15 

ing  also.  He  paused.  And,  of  course,  Hamilton, 
he  added.  ^ 

"Oh,  yes!  Hamilton,"  I  said,  and  the  miserable 
creature  took  himself  off  with  a  final  groan. 

His  impudence  still  rankled  when  I  came  into  the 
dining  room  at  tiffin  time.  He  was  there  on  duty 
overlooking  the  Chinamen  servants.  The  tiffin 
was  laid  on  one  end  only  of  the  long  table,  and  the 
punkah  was  stirring  the  hot  air  lazily — mostly 
above  a  barren  waste  of  polished  wood. 

We  were  four  around  the  cloth.  The  dozing 
stranger  from  the  chair  was  one.  Both  his  eyes 
were  partly  opened  now,  but  they  did  not  seem  to 
see  anything.  He  was  supine.  The  dignified 
person  next  him,  with  short  side  whiskers  and  a 
carefully  scraped  chin,  was,  of  course,  Hamilton. 
I  have  never  seen  any  one  so  full  of  dignity  for  the 
station  in  fife  Providence  had  been  pleased  to 
place  him  in.  I  had  been  told  that  he  regarded  me 
as  a  rank  outsider.  He  raised  not  only  his  eyes, 
but  his  eyebrows  as  well,  at  the  sound  I  made 
pulling  back  my  chair. 

Captain  Giles  was  at  the  head  of  the  table.  I 
exchanged  a  few  words  of  greeting  with  him  and  sat 
down  on  his  left.  Stout  and  pale,  with  a  great 
shiny  dome  of  a  bald  forehead   and  prominent 


IG  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

brown  eyes,  he  might  have  been  anything  but  a 
seaman.  You  would  not  have  been  surprised  to 
learn  that  he  was  an  architect.  To  me  (I  know 
how  absurd  it  is)  to  me  he  looked  like  a  church- 
warden. He  had  the  appearance  of  a  man  from 
whom  you  would  expect  sound  advice,  moral 
sentiments,  with  perhaps  a  platitude  or  two  thrown 
in  on  occasion,  not  from  a  desire  to  dazzle,  but 
from  honest  conviction. 

^  Though  very  well  known  and  appreciated  in  the 
shipping  world,  he  had  no  regular  employment. 
He  did  not  want  it.  He  had  his  own  peculiar 
position.  He  was  an  expert.  An  expert  in — how 
shall  I  say  it  .'^ — in  intricate  navigation.  He  was 
supposed  to  know  more  about  remote  and  im- 
perfectly charted  parts  of  the  Archipelago  than  any 
man  living.  His  brain  must  have  been  a  perfect 
warehouse  of  reefs,  positions,  bearings,  images  of 
headlands,  shapes  of  obscure  coasts,  aspects  of 
innumerable  islands,  desert  and  otherwise.  Any 
ship,  for  instance,  bound  on  a  trip  to  Palawan  or 
somewhere  that  way  would  have  Captain  Giles  on 
board,  either  in  temporary  command  or  "to  assist 
the  master."  It  was  said  that  he  had  a  retaining 
fee  from  a  wealthy  firm  of  Chinese  steamship 
owners,  in  view  of  such  services.     Besides,  he  was 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  17 

always  ready  to  relieve  any  man  who  wished  to 
take  a  spell  ashore  for  a  time.  No  owner  was  ever 
known  to  object  to  an  arrangement  of  that  sort. 
For  it  seemed  to  be  the  established  opinion  at  the 
port  that  Captain  Giles  was  as  good  as  the  best,  if 
not  a  little  better.  But  in  Hamilton's  view  he  was 
an  "outsider."  I  believe  that  for  Hamilton  the 
generahsation  "outsider"  covered  the  whole  lot  of 
us;  though  I  suppose  that  he  made  some  dis- 
tinctions in  his  mind. 

I  didn't  try  to  make  conversation  with  Captain 
Giles,  whom  I  had  not  seen  more  than  twice  in 
my  hfe.  But,  of  course,  he  knew  who  I  was. 
After  a  while,  inclining  his  big  shiny  head  my  way, 
he  addressed  me  first  in  his  friendly  fashion.  He 
presumed  from  seeing  me  there,  he  said,  that  I  had 
come  ashore  for  a  couple  of  days'  leave. 

He  was  a  low- voiced  man.  I  spoke  a  little 
louder,  saying  that:  No — I  had  left  the  ship  for 
good. 

"A  free  man  for  a  bit,"  was  his  comment. 

"I  suppose  I  may  call  myself  that — since  eleven 
o'clock,"  I  said. 

Hamilton  had  stopped  eating  at  the  sound  of 
our  voices.  He  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork  gently, 
got   up,   and   muttering   something   about   "this 


18  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

infernal  heat  cutting  one's  appetite,"  went  out  of 
the  room.  Almost  immediately  we  heard  hinr» 
leave  the  house  down  the  verandah  steps. 

On  this  Captain  Giles  remarked  easily  that  the 
fellow  had  no  doubt  gone  off  to  look  after  my  old 
job.  The  Chief  Steward,  who  had  been  leaning 
against  the  wall,  brought  his  face  of  an  unhappy 
goat  nearer  to  the  table  and  addressed  us  dole- 
fully. His  object  was  to  unburden  himself  of  his 
eternal  grievance  against  Hamilton.  The  man 
kept  him  in  hot  water  \s'ith  the  Harbour  Office  as 
to  the  state  of  his  accounts.  He  wished  to  good- 
ness he  would  get  my  job,  though  in  truth  what 
would  it  be.'*     Temporary  relief  at  best. 

I  said:  "You  needn't  worry.  He  won't  get  my 
job.     My  successor  is  on  board  already." 

He  was  surprised,  and  I  believe  his  face  fell 
a  httle  at  the  news.  Captain  Giles  gave  a  soft 
laugh.  We  got  up  and  went  out  on  the  verandah, 
leaving  the  supine  stranger  to  be  dealt  with  by 
the  Chinamen.  The  last  thing  I  saw  they  had  put 
a  plate  with  a  slice  of  pine-apple  on  it  before  him 
and  stood  back  to  watch  what  would  happen. 
But  the  experiment  seemed  a  failure.  He  sat  in- 
sensible. 

It  was  imparted  to  me  in  a  low  voice  by  Captain 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  19 

Giles  that  this  was  an  officer  of  some  Rajah's  yacht 
which  had  come  into  our  port  to  be  dry-docked. 
Must  have  been  "seeing  life"  last  night,  he  added, 
wrinkling  liis  nose  in  an  intimate,  confidential  way 
which  pleased  me  vastly.  For  Captain  Giles  had 
prestige.  He  was  credited  with  wonderful  ad- 
ventures and  with  some  mysterious  tragedy  in  his 
life.  And  no  man  had  a  word  to  say  against  him. 
He  continued : 

"I  remember  him  first  coming  ashore  here  some 
years  ago.  Seems  only  the  other  day.  He  was  a 
nice  boy.     Oh !  these  nice  boys ! " 

I  could  not  help  laughing  aloud.  He  looked 
startled,  then  joined  in  the  laugh.  "No!  No! 
I  didn't  mean  that,"  he  cried.  "What  I  meant 
is  that  some  of  them  do  go  soft  mighty  quick  out 
here." 

Jocularly  I  suggested  the  beastly  heat  as  the 
first  cause.  But  Captain  Giles  disclosed  himself 
possessed  of  a  deeper  philosophy.  Things  out 
East  were  made  easy  for  white  men.  That  was 
all  right.  The  difficulty  was  to  go  on  keeping 
white,  and  some  of  these  nice  boys  did  not  know 
how.  He  gave  me  a  searching  look,  and  in  a 
benevolent,  heavy-uncle  mannc  asked  point 
blank; 


20  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

"AMiy  did  you  throw  up  your  berth?" 
I  became  angry  all  of  a  sudden;  for  you  can 
understand  how  exasperating  such  a  question  was 
to  a  man  who  didn't  know.     I  said  to  myself  that 
I   ought   to  shut  up  that  morahst;  and  to  him 
aloud  I  said  with  challenging  pohteness : 
"WTiy     .     .     .     ?     Do  you  disapprove? " 
He  was  too  disconcerted  to  do  more  than  mutter 
confusedly:     "I!     .      .      .     In    a    general    way. 
.     .     ."  and  then  gave  me  up.     But  he  retired  in 
good  order,  under  the  cover  of  a  heavily  humorous 
remark  that  he,  too,  was  getting  soft,  and  that  this 
was  his  time  for  taking  his  Kttle  siesta — when  he 
was    on    shore.     "Very    bad    habit.     Yery    bad 
habit." 

There  was  a  simplicity  in  the  man  which  would 
have  disarmed  a  touchiness  even  more  youthful 
than  mine.  So  when  next  day  at  tiffin  he  bent  his 
head  toward  me  and  said  that  he  had  met  my 
late  Captain  last  evening,  adding  in  an  undertone: 
"He's  very  sorry  you  left.  He  had  never  had  a 
mate  that  suited  him  so  well,"  I  answered  him 
earnestly,  without  any  affectation,  that  I  certainly 
hadn't  been  so  comfortable  in  any  ship  or  with  any 
commander  in  all  my  sea-going  days. 
"Well — then,"  he  murmured. 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  21 

"Haven't  you  heard,  Captain  Giles,  that  I  in- 
tend to  go  home?  " 

"Yes,"  he  said  benevolently.  "I  have  heard 
that  sort  of  thing  so  often  before." 

"What  of  that.? "  I  cried.  I  thought  he  was  the 
most  dull,  unimaginative  man  I  had  ever  met.  I 
don't  know  what  more  I  would  have  said,  but 
the  much-belated  Hamilton  came  in  just  then 
and  took  his  usual  seat.  So  I  dropped  into  a  mum- 
ble. 

"Anyhow,  you  shall  see  it  done  this  time." 

Hamilton,  beautifully  shaved,  gave  Captain 
Giles  a  curt  nod,  but  didn't  even  condescend  to 
raise  his  eyebrows  at  me;  and  when  he  spoke  it  was 
only  to  tell  the  Chief  Steward  that  the  food  on  his 
plate  wasn't  fit  to  be  set  before  a  gentleman.  The 
individual  addressed  seemed  much  too  unhappy  to 
groan.  He  cast  his  eyes  up  to  the  punkah  and 
that  was  all. 

Captain  Giles  and  I  got  up  from  the  table,  and 
the  stranger  next  to  Hamilton  followed  our  ex- 
ample, manoeuvring  himself  to  his  feet  with 
difficulty.  He,  poor  fellow,  not  because  he  was 
hungry  but  I  verily  believe  only  to  recover  his 
self-respect,  had  tried  to  put  some  of  that  un- 
worthy food  into  his  mouth.     But  after  dropping 


22  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

Ill's  fork  twice  and  generally  making  a  failure  of 
it,  he  had  sat  still  with  an  air  of  intense  mortifica- 
tion combined  with  a  ghastly  glazed  stare.  Both 
Giles  and  I  had  avoided  looking  his  way  at 
table. 

On  the  verandah  he  stopped  short  on  purpose  to 
address  to  us  anxiously  a  long  remark  which  I 
failed  to  understand  completely.  It  sounded  like 
some  horrible  unknown  language.  But  when 
Captain  Giles,  after  only  an  instant  for  reflection, 
assured  him  with  homely  friendliness,  "Aye,  to  be 
sure.  You  are  right  there,"  he  appeared  very 
much  gratified  indeed,  and  went  away  (pretty 
straight,  too)  to  seek  a  distant  long  chair. 

"What  was  he  trying  to  say?"  I  asked  with 
disgust. 

"I  don't  know.  Mustn't  be  down  too  much  on 
a  fellow.  He's  feehng  pretty  wretched,  you  may 
be  sure;  and  to-morrow  he'll  feel  worse  yet." 

Judging  by  the  man's  appearance  it  seemed  im- 
possible. I  wondered  what  sort  of  compHcated  de- 
bauch had  reduced  him  to  that  unspeakable  con- 
dition. Captain  Giles'  benevolence  was  spoiled  by 
a  curious  air  of  complacency  which  I  disliked.  I 
said  with  a  httle  laugh: 

"Well,  he  will  have  you  to  look  after  him." 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  2S 

He  made  a  deprecatory  gesture,  sat  down,  and 
took  up  a  paper.  I  did  the  same.  The  papers 
were  old  and  uninteresting,  filled  up  mostly  with 
dreary  stereotyped  descriptions  of  Queen  Victoria's 
first  jubilee  celebrations.  Probably  we  should 
have  quickly  fallen  into  a  tropical  afternoon  doze 
if  it  had  not  been  for  Hamilton's  voice  raised  in 
the  dining  room.  He  was  finishing  his  tiffin  there. 
The  big  double  doors  stood  wide  open  permanently, 
and  he  could  not  have  had  any  idea  how  near  to  the 
doorway  our  chairs  were  placed.  He  was  heard  in 
a  loud,  supercilious  tone  answering  some  state- 
ment ventured  by  the  Chief  Steward. 

"I  am  not  going  to  be  rushed  into  anything. 
They  will  be  glad  enough  to  get  a  gentleman  I 
imagine.     There  is  no  hurry." 

A  loud  whispering  from  the  Steward  succeeded 
and  then  again  Hamilton  was  heard  with  even 
intenser  scorn. 

"What?  That  young  ass  who  fancies  himself 
for  having  been  chief  mate  with  Kent  so  long.'' 
.     .     .     Preposterous." 

Giles  and  I  looked  at  each  other.  Kent  being 
the  name  of  my  late  commander.  Captain  Giles' 
whisper,  "He's  talking  of  you,"  seemed  to  me  sheer 
waste  of  breath.     The  Chief  Steward  must  have 


24  THE  SIL\DOW  LINE 

stuck  to  his  point,  whatever  it  was,  because  Hamil- 
ton was  heard  again  more  supercilious  if  possible, 
and  also  very  emphatic: 

"Rubbish,  my  good  man!  One  doesn't  compete 
with  a  rank  outsider  like  that.  There's  plenty  of 
time." 

Then  there  were  pushing  of  chairs,  footsteps  in 
the  next  room,  and  plaintive  expostulations  from 
the  Steward,  who  was  pursuing  Hamilton,  even  out 
of  doors  through  the  main  entrance. 

"That's  a  very  insulting  sort  of  man,"  remarked 
Captain  Giles— superfluously,  I  thought.  "Very 
insulting.  You  haven't  offended  him  in  some  way, 
have  you.''" 

"Never  sjxjke  to  him  in  my  life,"  I  said  grumpily. 
"  Can't  imagine  what  he  means  by  competing.  He 
has  been  trying  for  my  job  after  I  left — and  didn't 
get  it.     But  that  isn't  exactly  competition." 

Captain  Giles  balanced  his  big  benevolent  head 
thoughtfully.  "He  didn't  get  it,"  he  repeated 
very  slowly.  "No,  not  likely  either,  with  Kent. 
Kent  is  no  end  sorry  you  left  him.  He  gives  you 
the  name  of  a  good  seaman,  too." 

I  flung  away  the  paper  I  was  still  holding.  I  sat 
up,  I  slapped  the  table  with  my  open  palm.  I 
wanted  to  know  why  he  would  keep  harping  on 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  25 

that,  my  absolutely  private  affair.  It  was  exas- 
perating, really. 

Captain  Giles  silenced  me  by  the  perfect 
equanimity  of  his  gaze.  "Nothing  to  be  annoyed 
about,"  he  murmured  reasonably,  with  an  evident 
desire  to  soothe  the  childish  irritation  he  had 
aroused.  And  he  was  really  a  man  of  an  appear- 
ance so  inoffensive  that  I  tried  to  explain  myself 
as  much  as  I  could.  I  told  him  that  I  did  not  want 
to  hear  any  more  about  what  was  past  and  gone. 
It  had  been  very  nice  while  it  lasted,  but  now  it 
was  done  with  I  preferred  not  to  talk  about  it  or 
even  think  about  it.  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  go 
home. 

He  listened  to  the  whole  tirade  in  a  particular 
lending-the-ear  attitude,  as  if  trying  to  detect  a 
false  note  in  it  somewhere;  then  straightened  him- 
self up  and  appeared  to  ponder  sagaciously  over 
the  matter. 

"Yes.  You  told  me  you  meant  to  go  home. 
Anything  in  view  there?" 

Instead  of  telling  him  that  it  was  none  of  his 
business  I  said  sullenly : 

"Nothing  that  I  know  of." 

I  had  indeed  considered  that  rather  blank  side  of 
the  situation  I  had  created  for  myself  by  leaving 


«6  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

suddenly  my  very  satisfactory  employment.  And 
I  was  not  very  pleased  with  it.  I  had  it  on  the  tip 
of  my  tongue  to  say  that  common  sense  had  noth- 
ing to  do  with  my  action,  and  that  therefore  it 
didn't  deserve  the  interest  Captain  Giles  seemed 
to  be  taking  in  it.  But  he  was  puffing  at  a  short 
wooden  pipe  now,  and  looked  so  guileless,  dense, 
and  commonplace,  that  it  seemed  hardly  worth 
while  to  puzzle  him  either  with  truth  or  sarcasm. 

He  blew  a  cloud  of  smoke,  then  surprised  me 
by  a  very  abrupt:  "Paid  your  passage  money 
yet.?" 

Overcome  by  the  shameless  pertinacity  of  a 
man  to  whom  it  was  rather  difficult  to  be  rude, 
I  replied  with  exaggerated  meekness  that  I  had 
not  done  so  yet.  I  thought  there  would  be  plenty 
of  time  to  do  that  to-morrow. 

And  I  was  about  to  turn  away,  withdrawing 
my  privacy  from  his  fatuous,  objectless  attempts 
to  test  what  sort  of  stuff  it  was  made  of,  when  he 
laid  down  his  pipe  in  an  extremely  significant 
manner,  you  know,  as  if  a  critical  moment  had 
come,  and  leaned  sideways  over  the  table  be- 
tween us. 

"Oh!  You  haven't  yet!"  He  dropped  his 
voice   mysteriously.     "Well,    then   I   think   you 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  27 

ought  to  know  that  there's  something  going  on 
here." 

I  had  never  in  my  life  felt  more  detached  from 
all  earthly  goings  on.  Freed  from  the  sea  for  a 
time,  I  preserved  the  sailor's  consciousness  of 
complete  independence  from  all  land  affairs. 
How  could  they  concern  me.'^  I  gazed  at  Captain 
Giles'  animation  with  scorn  rather  than  with 
curiosity. 

To  his  obviously  preparatory  question  whether 
our  Steward  had  spoken  to  me  that  day  I  said  he 
hadn't.  And  what's  more  he  would  have  had 
precious  little  encouragement  if  he  had  tried  to. 
I  didn't  want  the  fellow  to  speak  to  me  at  all. 

Unrebuked  by  my  petulance,  Captain  Giles, 
with  an  air  of  immense  sagacity,  began  to  tell  me 
a  minute  tale  about  a  Harbour  Office  peon.  It 
was  absolutely  pointless.  A  peon  was  seen  walk- 
ing that  morning  on  the  verandah  with  a  letter 
in  his  hand.  It  was  in  an  official  envelope.  As 
the  habit  of  these  fellov/s  is,  he  had  shown  it 
to  the  first  white  man  he  came  across.  That  man 
was  our  friend  in  the  arm-chair.  He,  as  I  knew, 
was  not  in  a  state  to  interest  himself  in  any  sub- 
lunary matters.  He  could  only  wave  the  peon 
away.     The  peon  then  wandered  on  along  the 


28  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

verandah  and  came  upon  Captain  Giles,  who 
was  there  by  an  extraordinary  chance.     .     .     . 

At  this  point  he  stopped  with  a  profound  look. 
The  letter,  he  continued,  was  addressed  to  the 
Chief  Steward.  Now  what  could  Captain  Ellis, 
the  Master  Attendant,  want  to  write  to  the 
Steward  for?  The  fellow  went  every  morning, 
anyhow,  to  the  Harbour  OflBce  with  his  report, 
for  orders  or  what  not.  He  hadn't  been  back 
more  than  an  hour  before  there  was  an  office 
peon  chasing  him  with  a  note.  Now  what  was 
that  for.? 

And  he  began  to  speculate.  It  was  not  for  this 
— and  it  could  not  be  for  that.  As  to  that  other 
thing  it  was  unthinkable. 

The  fatuousness  of  all  this  made  me  stare.  If 
the  man  had  not  been  somehow  a  sympathetic 
personality  I  would  have  resented  it  like  an  in- 
sult. As  it  was,  I  felt  only  sorry  for  him.  Some- 
thing remarkably  earnest  in  his  gaze  prevented 
me  from  laughing  in  his  face.  Neither  did  I 
yawn  at  him.     I  just  stared. 

His  tone  became  a  shade  more  mysterious. 
Directly  the  fellow  (meaning  the  Steward)  got 
that  note  he  rushed  for  his  hat  and  bolted  out  of 
the  house.    But  it  wasn't  because  the  note  called 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  29 

him  to  the  Harbour  Office.  He  didn't  go  there. 
He  was  not  absent  long  enough  for  that.  He  came 
darting  back  in  no  time,  jflung  his  hat  away,  and 
raced  about  the  dining  room  moaning  and  slapping 
his  forehead.  All  these  exciting  facts  and  mani- 
festations had  been  observed  by  Captain  Giles. 
He  had,  it  seems,  been  meditating  upon  them 
ever  since. 

I  began  to  pity  him  profoundly.  And  in  a 
tone  which  I  tried  to  make  as  httle  sarcastic  as 
possible  I  said  that  I  was  glad  he  had  found 
something  to  occupy  his  morning  hours. 

With  his  disarming  simplicity  he  made  me  ob- 
serve, as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  some  consequence, 
how  strange  it  was  that  he  should  have  spent 
the  morning  indoors  at  all.  He  generally  was 
out  before  tiffin,  visiting  various  offices,  seeing  his 
friends  in  the  harbour,  and  so  on.  He  had  felt 
out  of  sorts  somewhat  on  rising.  Nothing  much. 
Just  enough  to  make  him  feel  lazy. 

All  this  with  a  sustained,  holding  stare  which, 
in  conjunction  with  the  general  inanity  of  the 
discourse,  conveyed  the  impression  of  mild,  dreary 
lunacy.  And  when  he  hitched  his  chair  a  little 
and  dropped  his  voice  to  the  low  note  of  mystery, 
it  flashed  upon  me  that  high  professional  reputa- 


30  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

tion  was  not  necessarily  a  guarantee  of  sound 
mind. 

It  never  occurred  to  me  then  that  I  didn't 
know  in  what  soundness  of  mind  exactly  con- 
sisted and  what  a  delicate  and,  upon  the  whole, 
unimportant  matter  it  was.  With  some  idea  of 
not  hurting  his  feehngs  I  bhnked  at  him  in  an 
interested  manner.  But  when  he  proceeded  to 
ask  me  mysteriously  whether  I  remembered  what 
had  pass<3d  just  now  between  that  Steward  of 
ours  and  "that  man  Hamilton,"  I  only  grunted 
sourly  assent  and  turned  away  my  head. 

"Aye.  But  do  you  remember  every  word.'^"  he 
insisted  tactfully. 

"I  don't  know.  It's  none  of  my  business,"  I 
snapped  out,  consigning,  moreover,  the  Steward 
and  Hamilton  aloud  to  eternal  perdition. 

I  meant  to  be  very  energetic  and  final,  but 
Captain  Giles  continued  to  gaze  at  me  thought- 
fully. Nothing  could  stop  him.  He  went  on  to 
point  out  that  my  personality  was  involved  in 
that  conversation.  \Mien  I  tried  to  preserve  the 
semblance  of  unconcern  he  became  positively 
cruel.  I  heard  what  the  man  had  said.^  Yes.^ 
What  did  I  think  of  it  then.'^ — he  wanted  to  know. 

Captain  Giles'  appearance  excluding  the  sus- 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  31 

picion  of  mere  sly  malice,  I  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  he  was  simply  the  most  tactless  idiot  on  earth. 
I  almost  despised  myself  for  the  weakness  of 
attempting  to  enlighten  his  common  understand- 
ing. I  started  to  explain  that  I  did  not  think 
anything  whatever.  Hamilton  was  not  worth  a 
thought.  What  such  an  offensive  loafer  .  .  . 
"Aye!  that  he  is,"  interjected  Captain  Giles 
.  .  .  thought  or  said  was  below  any  decent 
man's  contempt,  and  I  did  not  propose  to  take 
the  slightest  notice  of  it. 

This  attitude  seemed  to  me  so  simple  and  ob- 
vious that  I  was  really  astonished  at  Giles  giving 
no  sign  of  assent.  Such  perfect  stupidity  was 
almost  interesting. 

"What  would  you  like  me  to  do.?"  I  asked, 
laughing.  "I  can't  start  a  row  with  him  because 
of  the  opinion  he  has  formed  of  me.  Of  course, 
I've  heard  of  the  contemptuous  way  he  alludes 
to  me.  But  he  doesn't  intrude  his  contempt  on 
my  notice.  He  has  never  expressed  it  in  my 
hearing.  For  even  just  now  he  didn't  know  we 
could  hear  him.  I  should  only  make  myself 
ridiculous." 

That  hopeless  Giles  went  on  puffing  at  his  pipe 
moodily.     All  at  once  his  face  cleared,  and  he  spoke. 


S«  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

"  Vou  niissed  my  point." 

"Have  I?     I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,"  I  said. 

With  increasing  animation  he  stated  again 
that  I  had  missed  his  point.  Entirely.  And  in  a 
tone  of  growing  self-conscious  complacency  he 
told  me  that  few  thmgs  escaped  his  attention, 
and  he  was  rather  used  to  think  them  out,  and 
generally  from  his  experience  of  life  and  men  ar- 
rived at  the  right  conclusion. 

This  bit  of  self-praise,  of  course,  fitted  excel- 
lently the  laborious  inanity  of  the  whole  conversa- 
tion. The  whole  thing  strengthened  in  me  that 
obscure  feeling  of  Hfe  being  but  a  waste  of  days, 
which,  half-unconsciously,  had  driven  me  out  of 
a  comfortable  berth,  away  from  men  I  liked,  to 
flee  from  the  menace  of  emptiness  .  .  .  and 
to  find  inanity  at  the  first  turn.  Here  was  a  man 
of  recognized  character  and  achievement  disclosed 
as  an  absurd  and  dreary  chatterer.  And  it  was 
probably  like  this  everywhere — from  east  to  west, 
from  the  bottom  to  the  top  of  the  social  scale. 

A  great  discouragement  fell  on  me.  A  spiritual 
drowsiness.  Giles'  voice  was  going  on  compla- 
cently; the  very  voice  of  the  universal  hollow 
conceit.  And  I  was  no  longer  angry  with  it. 
There   was   nothing   original,  nothing  new,  star- 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  33 

tling,  informing,  to  expect  from  the  world;  no  op- 
portunities to  find  out  something  about  oneself, 
no  wisdom  to  acquire,  no  fun  to  enjoy.  Every- 
thing was  stupid  and  overrated,  even  as  Captain 
Giles  was.     So  be  it. 

The  name  of  Hamilton  suddenly  caught  my 
ear  and  roused  me  up. 

"I  thought  we  had  done  with  him,"  I  said,  with 
the  greatest  possible  distaste. 

"Yes.  But  considering  what  we  happened  to 
hear  just  now  I  think  you  ought  to  do  it." 

"Ought  to  do  it?"  I  sat  up  bewildered.  "Do 
what.?" 

Captain  Giles  confronted  me  very  much  sur- 
prised. 

"Why!  Do  what  I  have  been  advising  you  to 
try.  You  go  and  ask  the  Steward  what  was  there 
in  that  letter  from  the  Harbour  Office.  Ask  him 
straight  out." 

I  remained  speechless  for  a  time.  Here  was 
something  unexpected  and  original  enough  to  be 
altogether  incomprehensible.  I  murmured,  as- 
tounded : 

"But  I  thought  it  was  Hamilton  that  you  .  .  ." 

"Exactly.  Don't  you  let  him.  You  do  what  I 
tell  you.     You  tackle  that  Steward.     You'll  mak<? 


S4  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

him  jump,  I  bet,"  insisted  Captain  Giles,  waving 
his  smouldering  pipe  impressively  at  me.  Then 
he  took  three  rapid  puffs  at  it. 

His  aspect  of  triumphant  acuteness  was  inde- 
scribable. Yet  the  man  remained  a  strangely 
sympathetic  creature.  Benevolence  radiated  from 
him  ridiculously,  mildly,  impressively.  It  was 
irritating,  too.  But  I  pointed  out  coldly,  as  one 
who  deals  with  the  incomprehensible,  that  I 
didn't  see  any  reason  to  expose  myself  to  a  snub 
from  the  fellow.  He  was  a  very  unsatisfactory 
steward  and  a  miserable  wretch  besides,  but  I 
would  just  as  soon  thinli  of  tweaking  his  nose. 

"Twealdng  his  nose,"  said  Captain  Giles  in  a 
scandaHzed    tone.     "Much   use   it   would   be    to 

you." 

That  remark  was  so  irrelevant  that  one  could 
make  no  answer  to  it.  But  the  sense  of  the  ab- 
surdity was  beginning  at  last  to  exercise  its  well- 
known  fascination.  I  felt  I  must  not  let  the 
man  talk  to  me  any  more.  I  got  up,  observing 
curtly  that  he  was  too  much  for  me — that  I 
couldn't  make  him  out. 

Before  I  had  time  to  move  away  he  spoke 
again  in  a  changed  tone  of  obstinacy  and  puffing 
nervously  at  his  pipe. 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  35 

"Well — he's  a — no  account  cuss — anyhow. 
You  just — ask  him.     That's  all." 

That  new  manner  impressed  me — or  rather 
made  me  pause.  But  sanity  asserting  its  sway 
at  once  I  left  the  verandah  after  giving  him  a 
mirthless  smile.  In  a  few  strides  I  found  myself 
in  the  dining  room,  now  cleared  and  empty.  But 
during  that  short  time  various  thoughts  occurred 
to  me,  such  as:  that  Giles  had  been  making  fun 
of  me,  expecting  some  amusement  at  my  expense; 
that  I  probably  looked  silly  and  gullible;  that  I 
knew  very  Httle  of  life.     .     . 

The  door  facing  me  across  the  dining  room  flew 
open  to  my  extreme  surprise.  It  was  the  door 
inscribed  with  the  word  "Steward"  and  the  man 
hunself  ran  out  of  his  stuffy,  Philistinish  lair  in 
his  absurd,  hunted-animal  manner,  making  for  the 
garden  door. 

To  this  day  I  don't  know  what  made  me  call 
after  him.  "I  say!  Wait  a  minute."  Perhaps 
it  was  the  sidelong  glance  he  gave  me;  or  possibly 
I  was  yet  under  the  influence  of  Captain  Giles' 
mysterious  earnestness.  Well,  it  was  an  impulse 
of  some  sort;  an  effect  of  that  force  somewhere 
within  our  lives  which  shapes  them  this  way  or 
that.     For  if  these  words  had  not  escaped  from  my 


36  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

lips  (my  will  had  nothing  to  do  with  that)  my 
existence  would,  to  be  sure,  have  been  still  a  sea- 
man's existence,  but  directed  on  now  to  me  utterly 
inconceivable  lines. 

No.  My  will  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  In- 
deed, no  sooner  had  I  made  that  fateful  noise 
than  I  became  extremely  sorry  for  it.  Had  the 
man  stopped  and  faced  me  I  would  have  had  to 
retire  in  disorder.  For  I  had  no  notion  to  carry 
out  Captain  Giles'  idiotic  joke,  either  at  my  own 
expense  or  at  the  expense  of  the  Steward. 

But  here  the  old  human  instinct  of  the  chase 
came  into  play.  He  pretended  to  be  deaf,  and  I, 
without  thinking  a  second  about  it,  dashed  along 
my  own  side  of  the  dining  table  and  cut  him  off 
at  the  very  door. 

"^Vhy  can't  you  answer  when  you  are  spoken 
to.'*"  I  asked  roughly. 

He  leaned  against  the  lintel  of  the  door.  He 
looked  extremely  wretched.  Human  nature  is,  I 
fear,  not  very  nice  right  through.  There  are  ugly 
spots  in  it.  I  found  myself  growing  angry,  and 
that,  I  beUeve,  only  because  my  quarry  looked 
so  woe-begone.     Miserable  beggar! 

I  went  for  him  without  more  ado.  "I  under- 
stand there  was  an  official  communication  to  the 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  37 

Home  from  the  Harbour  Office  this  morning.     Is 
that  so?" 

Instead  of  telling  me  to  mind  my  own  business, 
as  he  might  have  done,  he  began  to  whine  with 
an  undertone  of  impudence.  He  couldn't  see  me 
anywhere  this  morning.  He  couldn't  be  expected 
to  run  all  over  the  town  after  me. 

"Wbo  wants  you  to.f^"  I  cried.  And  then  my 
eyes  became  opened  to  the  inwardness  of  things 
and  speeches  the  triviality  of  which  had  been  so 
baffling  and  tiresome. 

I  told  him  I  wanted  to  know  \^hat  was  in  that 
letter.  My  sternness  of  tone  and  behaviour  was 
only  half  assumed.  Curiosity  can  be  a  very  fierce 
sentiment— at  times. 

He  took  refuge  in  a  silly,  muttering  sulkiness. 
It  was  nothing  to  me,  he  mumbled.  I  had  told 
him  I  was  going  home.  And  since  I  was  going 
home  he  didn't  see  why  he  should.     .     .     . 

That  was  the  line  of  his  argument,  and  it  was 
irrelevant  enough  to  be  almost  insulting.  Insult- 
ing to  one's  intelligence,  I  mean. 

In  that  twilight  region  between  youth  and 
maturity,  in  which  I  had  my  being  then,  one  is 
peculiarly  sensitive  to  that  kind  of  insult.  I  am 
afraid  my  behaviour  to  the  Steward  became  very 


38  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

rough  indeed.  But  it  wasn't  in  him  to  face  out 
anything  or  anybody.  Drug  habit  or  sohtary 
tippling,  perhaps.  And  when  I  forgot  myself  so 
far  as  to  swear  at  him  he  broke  down  and  began  to 
shriek. 

I  don't  mean  to  say  that  he  made  a  great  out- 
cry. It  was  a  cynical  shrieking  confession,  only 
faint — piteously  faint.  It  wasn't  very  coherent 
either,  but  sufficiently  so  to  strike  me  dumb  at  first. 
I  turned  my  eyes  from  him  in  righteous  indig- 
nation, and  perceived  Captain  Giles  in  the  ve- 
randah doorway  surveying  quietly  the  scene,  his 
own  handiwork,  if  I  may  express  it  in  that  way. 
His  smouldering  black  pipe  was  very  noticeable 
in  his  big,  paternal  fist.  So,  too,  was  the  ghtter  of 
his  heavy  gold  watch-chain  across  the  breast  of  his 
white  tunic.  He  exhaled  an  atmosphere  of  virtu- 
ous sagacity  serene  enough  for  any  innocent  soul  to 
fly  to  confidently.     I  flew  to  him. 

"You  would  never  beheve  it,"  I  cried.  "It  was 
a  notification  that  a  master  is  wanted  for  some 
ship.  There's  a  command  apparently  going  about 
and  this  fellow  puts  the  thing  in  his  pocket." 

The  Steward  screamed  out  in  accents  of  loud 
despair:     "You  will  be  the  death  of  me!" 

The  mighty  slap  he  gave  his  wretched  forehead 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  39 

was  very  loud,  too.  But  when  I  turned  to  look  at 
him  he  was  no  longer  there.  He  had  rushed  away 
somewhere  out  of  sight.  This  sudden  disappear- 
ance made  me  laugh. 

This  was  the  end  of  the  incident — for  me. 
Captain  Giles,  however,  staring  at  the  place  where 
the  Steward  had  been,  began  to  haul  at  his  gor- 
geous gold  chain  till  at  last  the  watch  came  up 
from  the  deep  pocket  like  solid  truth  from  a  well. 
Solemnly  he  lowered  it  down  again  and  only  then 
said: 

"Just  three  o'clock.  You  will  be  in  time — if 
you  don't  lose  any,  that  is." 

"In  time  for  what?"  I  asked. 

"Good  Lord!  For  the  Harbour  Office.  This 
must  be  looked  into." 

Strictly  speaking,  he  was  right.  But  I've  never 
had  much  taste  for  investigation,  for  showing 
people  up  and  all  that  no  doubt  ethically  meri- 
torious kind  of  work.  And  my  view  of  the  episode 
was  purely  ethical.  If  any  one  had  to  be  the  death 
of  the  Steward  I  didn't  see  why  it  shouldn't  be 
Captain  Giles  himself,  a  man  of  age  and  standing, 
and  a  permanent  resident.  Whereas  I,  in  com- 
parison felt  myself  a  mere  bird  of  passage  in  that 
port.     In  fact,  it  might  have  been  said  that  I  had 


40  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

already  broken  off  my  connection.  I  muttered 
that  I  didn't  think — it  was  nothing  to  me.     .     .     . 

"Nothing!"  repeated  Captain  Giles,  giving  some 
signs  of  quiet,  dehberate  indignation.  "Kent 
warned  me  you  were  a  peculiar  young  fellow.  You 
will  tell  me  next  that  a  command  is  nothing  to  you 
— and  after  all  the  trouble  I've  taken,  too!" 

"The  trouble!"  I  murmured,  imcomprehending. 
TVTiat  trouble?  All  I  could  remember  was  being 
mystified  and  bored  by  his  conversation  for  a  solid 
hour  after  tiffin.  And  he  called  that  taking  a  lot 
of  trouble. 

He  was  looking  at  me  with  a  self-complacency 
which  would  have  been  odious  in  any  other  man. 
All  at  once,  as  if  a  page  of  a  book  had  been  turned 
over  disclosing  a  word  which  made  plain  all  that 
had  gone  before,  I  perceived  that  this  matter  had 
also  another  than  an  ethical  aspect. 

And  still  I  did  not  move.  Captain  Giles  lost  his 
patience  a  Httle.  With  an  angrj'^  puff  at  his  pipe  he 
turned  his  back  on  my  hesitation. 

But  it  was  not  hesitation  on  my  part.  I  had 
been,  if  I  may  express  myself  so,  put  out  of  gear 
mentally.  But  as  soon  as  I  had  convinced  my- 
self that  this  stale,  unprofitable  world  of  my  dis- 
content contained  such  a  thing  as  a  command 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  41 

to  be  seized,  I  recovered  my  powers  of  locomo- 
tion 

It's  a  good  step  from  the  Officers'  Home  to  the 
Harbom*  Office;  but  with  the  magic  word  "Com- 
mand" in  my  head  I  found  myseK  suddenly  on 
the  quay  as  if  transported  there  in  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye,  before  a  portal  of  dressed  white  stone  above 
a  flight  of  shallow  white  steps. 

All  this  seemed  to  ghde  toward  me  swiftly.  The 
whole  great  roadstead  to  the  right  was  just  a  mere 
fficker  of  blue,  and  the  dim  cool  hall  swallowed 
me  up  out  of  the  heat  and  glare  of  which  I  had  not 
been  aware  till  the  very  moment  I  passed  in  from  it. 

The  broad  inner  staircase  insinuated  itself  under 
my  feet  somehow.  Command  is  a  strong  magic. 
The  first  human  beings  I  perceived  distinctly  since 
I  had  parted  with  the  indignant  back  of  Captain 
Giles  were  the  crew  of  the  harbour  steam-launch 
lounging  on  the  spacious  landing  about  the  cur- 
tained archway  of  the  sh  pping  office. 

It  was  there  that  my  buoyancy  abandoned  me. 
The  atmosphere  of  officialdom  would  kill  anything 
that  breathes  the  air  of  human  endeavour,  would 
extinguish  hope  and  fear  ahke  in  the  supremacy  of 
paper  and  ink.  I  passed  heavily  under  the  curtain 
which  the  Malay  coxswain  of  the  harbour  launch 


42  THE  SliADOW  LINE 

raised  for  me.  There  was  nobody  in  the  office 
except  the  clerks,  writing  in  two  industrious  rows. 
But  the  head  Shipping-Master  hopped  down  from 
his  elevation  and  hurried  along  on  the  thick  mats 
to  meet  me  in  the  broad  central  passage. 

He  had  a  Scottish  name,  but  his  complexion  was 
of  a  rich  ohve  hue,  his  short  beard  was  jet  black, 
and  his  eyes,  also  black,  had  a  languishing  ex- 
pression.    He  asked  confiden tally : 

"You  want  to  see  Him.f^" 

All  lightness  of  spirit  and  body  having  departed 
from  me  at  the  touch  of  officialdom,  I  looked  at 
the  scribe  without  animation  and  asked  in  my  turn 
wearil}^ : 

"What  do  you  think?     Is  it  any  use?" 

"My  goodness!  He  has  asked  for  you  twice  to- 
day." 

This  emphatic  He  was  the  supreme  authority, 
the  Marine  Superintendent,  the  Harbour-Master 
— a  verj^  great  person  in  the  eyes  of  every  single 
quill-driver  in  the  room.  But  that  was  nothing  to 
the  opinion  he  had  of  his  own  greatness. 

Captain  Ellis  looked  upon  himself  as  a  sort  of 
divine  (pagan)  emanation,  the  deputy-Neptune  for 
the  circumambient  seas.  If  he  did  not  actually 
rule  the  waves,  he  pretended  to  rule  the  fate  of 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  43 

the  mortals  whose  lives  were  cast  upon  the 
waters. 

This  uplifting  illusion  made  him  inquisitorial 
and  peremptory.  And  as  his  temperament  was 
choleric  there  were  fellows  who  were  actually  afraid 
of  him.  He  was  redoubtable,  not  in  virtue  of  his 
office,  but  because  of  his  unwarrantable  assump- 
tions. I  had  never  had  anything  to  do  with  him 
before. 

I  said :  "  Oh !  He  has  asked  for  me  twice.  Then 
perhaps  I  had  better  go  in." 

"You  must!     You  must!" 

The  Shipping-Master  led  the  way  with  a  mincing 
gait  around  the  whole  system  of  desks  to  a  tall  and 
important-looking  door,  which  he  opened  with  a 
deferential  action  of  the  arm. 

He  stepped  right  in  (but  without  letting  go  of 
the  handle)  and,  after  gazing  reverently  down  the 
room  for  a  while,  beckoned  me  in  by  a  silent  jerk 
of  the  head.  Then  he  slipped  out  at  once  and  shut 
the  door  after  me  most  delicately. 

Three  lofty  windows  gave  on  the  harbour. 
There  was  nothing  in  them  but  the  dark-blue 
sparkling  sea  and  the  paler  luminous  blue  of  the 
sky.  My  eye  caught  in  the  depths  and  distances 
of  these  blue  tones  the  white  speck  of  some  big  ship 


44  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

just  arrived  and  about  to  anchor  in  the  outer  road- 
stead. A  ship  from  home — after  perhaps  ninety 
days  at  sea.  There  is  something  touching  about  a 
ship  coming  in  from  sea  and  folding  her  white 
wings  for  a  rest. 

The  next  thing  I  saw  was  the  top-knot  of  silver 
hair  surmounting  Captain  ElHs'  smooth  red  face, 
which  would  have  been  apoplectic  if  it  hadn't  had 
such  a  fresh  appearance. 

Our  deputy-Neptune  had  no  beard  on  his  chin, 
and  there  was  no  trident  to  be  seen  standing  in  a 
corner  anywhere,  Hke  an  umbrella.  But  his  hand 
was  holding  a  pen — the  official  pen,  far  mightier 
than  the  sword  in  makuig  or  marring  the  fortune  of 
simple  toihng  men.  He  was  looking  over  his 
shoulder  at  my  advance. 

"WTien  I  had  come  well  within  range  he  saluted 
me  by  a  nerve-shattering:  "^^Tiere  have  you  been 
all  this  time?" 

As  it  was  no  concern  of  his  I  did  not  take  the 
slightest  notice  of  the  shot.  I  said  simply  that  I 
had  heard  there  was  a  master  needed  for  some 
vessel,  and  being  a  saUing-ship  man  I  thought  I 
would  apply.     .     .     . 

He  interrupted  me.  "\Miy!  Hang  it!  Fow  are 
the  right  man  for  that  job — if  there  had  been 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  45 

twenty  others  after  it.  But  no  fear  of  that.  They 
are  all  afraid  to  catch  hold.  That's  what's  the 
matter." 

He  was  very  irritated.  I  said  innocently:  "Are 
they,  sir.     I  wonder  why?" 

"Why!"  he  fumed.  "Afraid  of  the  sails. 
Afraid  of  a  white  crew.  Too  much  trouble.  Too 
much  work.  Too  long  out  here.  Easy  life  and 
deck-chairs  more  their  mark.  Here  I  sit  with  the 
Consul-General's  cable  before  me,  and  the  only 
man  fit  for  the  job  not  to  be  found  anywhere.  I 
began  to  thinlc  you  were  funking  it,  too.    ..." 

"I  haven't  been  long  getting  to  the  oflSce,"  I 
remarked  calmly. 

"You  have  a  good  name  out  here,  though,"  he 
growled  savagely  without  looking  at  me. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it  from  you,  sir,"  I  said. 

"Yes.  But  you  are  not  on  the  spot  when  you 
are  wanted.  You  know  you  weren't.  That  stew- 
ard of  yours  wouldn't  dare  to  neglect  a  message 
from  this  office.  WTiere  the  devil  did  you  hide 
yourself  for  the  best  part  of  the  day?" 

I  only  smiled  kindly  down  on  him,  and  he  seemed 
to  recollect  himself,  and  asked  me  to  take  a  seat.  He 
explained  that  the  master  of  a  British  ship  having 
died  in  Bangkok  the  Consul-General  had  cabled  to 


46  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

him  a  request  for  a  competent  man  to  be  sent  out  to 
take  command. 

Apparently,  in  his  mind,  I  was  the  man  from  the 
first,  though  for  the  4ooks  of  the  thing  the  notifica- 
tion addressed  to  the  Sailors'  Home  was  general. 
An  agreement  had  already  been  prepared.  He 
gave  it  to  me  to  read,  and  when  I  handed  it  back  to 
him  with  the  remark  that  I  accepted  its  terms,  the 
deputy-Neptune  signed  it,  stamped  it  with  his  own 
exalted  hand,  folded  it  in  four  (it  was  a  sheet  of 
blue  foolscap)  and  presented  it  to  me — a  gift  of  ex- 
traordinary potency,  for,  as  I  put  it  in  my  pocket, 
my  head  swam  a  little. 

"This  is  your  appointment  to  the  command,"  he 
said  with  a  certain  gravity.  "An  official  appoint- 
ment binding  the  owners  to  conditions  which  you 
have  accepted.  Now — when  will  you  be  ready  to 
go? 

I  said  I  would  be  ready  that  very  day  if  neces- 
sary. He  caught  me  at  my  word  with  great 
alacrity.  The  steamer  Melita  was  leaving  for 
Bangkok  that  evening  about  seven.  He  would 
request  her  captain  officially  to  give  me  a  passage 
and  wait  for  me  till  ten  o'clock. 

Then  he  rose  from  his  office  chair,  and  I  got  up, 
too.    My  head  swam,  there  was  no  doubt  about  it 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  47 

and  I  felt  a  certain  heaviness  of  limbs  as  if  they 
had  grown  bigger  since  I  had  sat  down  on  that 
chair.     I  made  my  bow. 

A  subtle  change  in  Captain  Ellis'  manner  became 
perceptible  as  though  he  had  laid  aside  the  trident 
of  deputy-Neptune.  In  reality,  it  was  only  his 
official  pen  that  he  had  dropped  on  getting  up. 


n 

He  shook  hands  with  me:  "Well,  there  you  are,  on 
your  own,  appointed  officially  under  my  re- 
sponsibihty." 

He  was  actually  walking  with  me  to  the  door. 
\Miat  a  distance  off  it  seemed!  I  moved  like  a 
man  in  bonds.  But  we  reached  it  at  last.  I  opened 
it  with  the  sensation  of  dealing  with  mere  dream- 
stuff,  and  then  at  the  last  moment  the  fellowship 
of  seamen  asserted  itself,  stronger  than  the  differ- 
ence of  age  and  station.  It  asserted  itself  in 
Captain  Ellis'  voice. 

"Good-bye — and  good  luck  to  you,"  he  said  so 
heartily  that  I  could  only  give  him  a  grateful 
glance.  Then  I  turned  and  went  out,  never  to  see 
him  again  in  my  life.  I  had  not  made  three  steps 
into  the  outer  office  when  I  heard  behind  my  back 
a  gruff,  loud,  authoritative  voice,  the  voice  of  our 
deputy-Neptune. 

It  was  addressing  the  head  Shipping-Master 
who,  having  let  me  in,  had,  apparently,  remained 
hovering  in  the  middle  distance  ever  since. 

48 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  49 

"Mr.  R.,  let  the  harbour  launch  have  steam  up  to 
take  the  captain  here  on  board  the  Melita  at  half- 
past  nine  to-night." 

I  was  amazed  at  the  startled  alacrity  of  R's 
"Yes,  sir."  He  ran  before  me  out  on  the  landing. 
My  new  dignity  sat  yet  so  lightly  on  me  that  I  was 
not  aware  that  it  was  I,  the  Captain,  the  object  of 
this  last  graciousness.  It  seemed  as  if  all  of  a  sud- 
den a  pair  of  wings  had  grown  on  my  shoulders.  I 
merely  skimmed  along  the  polished  floor. 

But  R.  was  impressed. 

"I  say!"  he  exclaimed  on  the  landing,  while  the 
Malay  crew  of  the  steam-launch  standing  by  looked 
stonily  at  the  man  for  whom  they  were  going  to  be 
kept  on  duty  so  late,  away  from  their  gambling, 
from  their  girls,  or  their  pure  domestic  joys.  "I 
say!  His  own  launch.  What  have  you  done  to 
him.''" 

His  stare  was  full  of  respectful  curiosity.  I  was 
quite  confounded. 

"Was  it  for  me.^*  I  hadn't  the  slightest  notion," 
I  stammered  out. 

He  nodded  many  times.  "Yes.  And  the  last 
person  who  had  it  before  you  was  a  Duke.  So, 
there!" 

I  think  he  expected  me  to  faint  on  the  spot. 


50  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

But  I  was  in  too  much  of  a  hurry  for  emotional 
displays.  My  feelings  were  already  in  such  a  whirl 
that  this  staggering  information  did  not  seem  to 
make  the  slightest  difference.  It  merely  fell  into 
the  seetliing  cauldron  of  my  brain,  and  I  carried  it 
off  with  me  after  a  short  but  effusive  passage  of 
leave-taking  with  R. 

The  favour  of  the  great  throws  an  aureole  round 
the  fortunate  object  of  its  selection.  That  ex- 
ceDent  man  enquired  whether  he  could  do  anything 
for  me.  He  had  known  me  only  by  sight,  and  he 
was  well  aware  he  would  never  see  me  again;  I  was, 
in  common  with  the  other  seamen  of  the  port, 
merely  a  subject  for  official  writing,  filling  up  of 
forms  with  all  the  artificial  superiority  of  a  man  of 
pen  and  ink  to  the  men  who  grapple  with  realities 
outside  the  consecrated  walls  of  official  buildings. 
What  ghosts  we  must  have  been  to  him!  Mere 
symbols  to  juggle  with  in  books  and  heavy 
registers,  without  brains  and  muscles  and  per- 
plexities; something  hardly  useful  and  decidedly 
inferior. 

And  he — the  oflSce  hours  being  over — wanted  to 
know  if  he  could  be  of  any  use  to  me! 

I  ought — properly  speaking — I  ought  to  have 
been  moved  to  tears.     But  I  did  not  even  think  of  it. 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  51 

It  was  merely  another  miraculous  manifestation  of 
that  day  of  miracles.  I  parted  from  him  as  if  he 
were  a  mere  symbol.  I  floated  down  the  staircase. 
I  floated  out  of  the  oflScial  and  imposing  portal.  I 
went  on  floating  along. 

I  use  that  word  rather  than  the  word  "flew,"  be- 
cause I  have  a  distinct  impression  that,  though  up- 
lifted by  my  aroused  youth,  my  movements  were 
deliberate  enough.  To  that  mixed  white,  brown, 
and  yellow  portion  of  mankind,  out  abroad  on  their 
own  affairs,  I  presented  the  appearance  of  a  man 
walking  rather  sedately.  And  nothing  in  the  way 
of  abstraction  could  have  equalled  my  deep  de- 
tachment from  the  forms  and  colours  of  this  world, 
t  was,  as  it  were,  final. 

And  yet,  suddenly,  I  recognized  Hamilton.  I 
recognized  him  without  effort,  without  a  shock, 
without  a  start.  There  he  was,  strolling  toward 
the  Harbour  Office  with  his  stiff,  arrogant  dignity. 
His  red  face  made  him  noticeable  at  a  distance.  It 
flamed,  over  there,  on  the  shady  side  of  the  street. 

He  had  perceived  me,  too.  Something  (uncon- 
scious exuberance  of  spirits  perhaps)  moved  me  to 
wave  my  hand  to  him  elaborately.  This  lapse 
from  good  taste  happened  before  I  was  aware  that 
I  was  capable  of  it. 


52  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

The  impact  of  my  impudence  stopped  him  short, 
much  as  a  bullet  might  have  done.  I  verily  beheve 
he  staggered,  though  as  far  as  I  could  see  he  didn't 
actually  fall.  I  had  gone  past  in  a  moment  and  did 
not  turn  my  head.     I  had  forgotten  his  existence. 

The  next  ten  minutes  might  have  been  ten 
seconds  or  ten  centuries  for  all  my  consciousness 
had  to  do  with  it.  People  might  have  been  falling 
dead  around  me,  houses  crumbluig,  guns  firing, 
I  wouldn't  have  known.  I  was  thinking:  "By 
Jove!  I  have  got  it."  7^  being  the  command.  It 
had  come  about  in  a  way  utterly  unforeseen  in  my 
modest  day-dreams. 

I  perceived  that  my  imagination  had  been  run- 
ning in  conventional  channels  and  that  my  hopes 
had  always  been  drab  stuff.  I  had  envisaged  a 
command  as  a  result  of  a  slow  course  of  promotion 
in  the  employ  of  some  highly  respectable  firm. 
The  reward  of  faithful  service.  Well,  faithful 
service  was  all  right.  One  would  naturally  give 
that  for  one's  own  sake,  for  the  sake  of  the  ship, 
for  the  love  of  the  life  of  one's  choice;  not  for  the 
sake  of  the  reward. 

There  is  something  distasteful  in  the  notion  of  a 
Teward. 

And  now  here  I  had  my  command,  absolutely  in 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  5S 

my  pocket,  in  a  way  undeniable  indeed,  but  most 
unexpected;  beyond  my  imaginings,  outside  all 
reasonable  expectations,  and  even  notwithstanding 
the  existence  of  some  sort  of  obscure  intrigue  to 
keep  it  away  from  me.  It  is  true  that  the  intrigue 
was  feeble,  but  it  helped  the  feeling  of  wonder — as 
if  I  had  been  specially  destined  for  that  ship  I  did 
not  know,  by  some  power  higher  than  the  prosaic 
agencies  of  the  commercial  world. 

A  strange  sense  of  exultation  began  to  creep  into 
me.  If  I  had  worked  for  that  command  ten  years 
or  more  there  would  have  been  nothing  of  the  kind. 
I  was  a  httle  frightened. 

"Let  us  be  calm,"  I  said  to  myself. 

Outside  the  door  of  the  Officers'  Home  the 
wretched  Steward  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  me. 
There  was  a  broad  flight  of  a  few  steps,  and  he  ran 
to  and  fro  on  the  top  of  it  as  if  chained  there.  A 
distressed  cm*.  He  looked  as  though  his  throat 
were  too  dry  for  him  to  bark. 

I  regret  to  say  I  stopped  before  going  in.  There 
had  been  a  revolution  in  my  moral  nature.  He 
waited  open-mouthed,  breathless,  while  I  looked 
at  hira  for  half  a  minute. 

"And  you  thought  you  could  keep  me  out  of  it," 
I  said  scathingly. 


54  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

"You  said  you  were  going  home,"  he  squeaked 
miserably.     "  You  said  so.     You  said  so." 

"I  wonder  what  Captain  Ellis  will  have  to  say 
to  that  excuse,"  I  uttered  slowly  with  a  sinister 
meaning. 

His  lower  jaw  had  been  trembling  all  the  time  and 
his  voice  was  like  the  bleating  of  a  sick  goat.  "  You 
have  given  me  away.^     You  have  done  for  me.^^" 

Neither  his  distress  not  yet  the  sheer  absurdity 
of  it  was  able  to  disarm  me.  It  was  the  first  in- 
stance of  harm  being  attempted  to  be  done  to  me 
— at  any  rate,  the  first  I  had  ever  found  out.  And 
I  was  still  young  enough,  still  too  much  on  this  side 
of  the  shadow  line,  not  to  be  surprised  and  indig- 
nant at  such  things. 

I  gazed  at  him  inflexibly.  Let  the  beggar  suffer. 
He  slapped  his  forehead  and  I  passed  in,  pursued, 
into  the  dining  room,  by  his  screech:  "I  always 
said  you'd  be  the  death  of  me." 

This  clamour  not  only  overtook  me,  but  went 
ahead  as  it  were  on  to  the  verandah  and  brought 
out  Captain  Giles. 

He  stood  before  me  in  the  doorway  in  all  the 
commonplace  solidity  of  his  wisdom.  The  gold 
chain  glittered  on  hh  bref^st.  He  clutched  a 
smouldering  pipe. 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  55 

I  extended  my  hand  to  him  warmly  and  he 
seemed  surprised,  but  did  respond  heartily  enough 
in  the  end,  with  a  faint  smile  of  superior  knowledge 
which  cut  my  thanks  short  as  if  with  a  knife.  I 
don't  think  that  more  than  one  word  came  out. 
And  even  for  that  one,  judging  by  the  temperature 
of  my  face,  I  had  blushed  as  if  for  a  bad  action. 
Assuming  a  detached  tone,  I  wondered  how  on 
earth  he  had  managed  to  spot  the  little  underhand 
game  that  had  been  going  on. 

He  murmured  complacently  that  there  were  but 
few  things  done  in  the  town  that  he  could  not  see 
the  inside  of.  And  as  to  this  house,  he  had  been 
using  it  off  and  on  for  nearly  ten  years.  Nothing 
that  went  on  in  it  could  escape  his  great  experience. 
It  had  been  no  trouble  to  him.     No  trouble  at  all. 

Then  in  his  quiet,  thick  tone  he  wanted  to  know 
if  I  had  complained  formally  of  the  Steward's 
action. 

I  said  that  I  hadn't — though,  indeed,  it  was  not 
for  want  of  opportunity.  Captain  Ellis  had  gone 
for  me  bald-headed  in  a  most  ridiculous  fashion  for 
being  out  of  the  way  when  wanted. 

"Funny  old  gentleman,"  interjected  Captain 
Ciiles.     "What  did  you  say  to  that?" 

"I  said  simply  that  I  came  along  the  very  mo- 


56  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

ment  I  heard  of  his  message.  Nothing  more.  I 
didn't  want  to  hurt  the  Steward.  I  would  scorn 
to  harm  such  an  object.  No.  I  made  no  com- 
plaint, but  I  beUeve  he  thinks  I've  done  so.  Let 
him  think.  He's  got  a  fright  he  won't  forget  in  a 
hurry,  for  Captain  Ellis  would  kick  him  out  into 
the  middle  of  Asia.     .     .     ." 

"Wait  a  moment,"  said  Captain  Giles,  leaving 
me  suddenly.  I  sat  down  feeling  very  tired, 
mostly  in  my  head.  Before  I  could  start  a  train  of 
thought  he  stood  again  before  me,  murmuring  the 
excuse  that  he  had  +0  go  and  put  the  fellow's  mind 
at  ease. 

I  looked  up  with  surprise.  But  in  reality  I  was 
indifferent.  He  explained  that  he  had  found  the 
Steward  Ij'ing  face  downward  on  the  horsehair  sofa. 
He  was  all  right  now. 

"He  would  not  have  died  of  fright,"  I  said  con- 
temptuously. 

"No.  But  he  might  have  taken  an  overdose  out 
of  one  of  them  Uttle  bottles  he  keeps  in  his  room," 
Captain  Giles  argued  seriously.  "The  confounded 
fool  has  tried  to  poison  himself  once — a  few  years 
ago." 

"Really,"  I  said  without  emotion.  "He  doesn't 
seem  very  fit  to  live,  anyhow," 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  57 

"As  to  that,  it  may  be  said  of  a  good  many." 

"Don't  exaggerate  like  this!"  I  protested, 
laughing  irritably.  "But  I  wonder  what  this  part 
of  the  world  would  do  if  you  were  to  leave  off  look- 
ing after  it,  Captain  Giles?  Here  you  have  got  me 
a  command  and  saved  the  Steward's  life  in  one 
afternoon.  Though  why  you  should  have  taken  all 
that  interest  in  either  of  us  is  more  than  I  can 
understand." 

Captain  Giles  remained  silent  for  a  minute. 
Then  gravely: 

"He's  not  a  bad  steward  really.  He  can  find  a 
good  cook,  at  any  rate.  And,  what's  more,  he  can 
keep  him  when  found.  I  remember  the  cooks  we 
had  here  before  his  time!     .     .     ." 

I  must  have  made  a  movement  of  impatience, 
because  he  interrupted  himself  with  an  apology  for 
keeping  me  yarning  there,  while  no  doubt  I  needed 
all  my  time  to  get  ready. 

What  I  really  needed  was  to  be  alone  for  a  bit. 
I  seized  this  opening  hastily.  My  bedroom  was  a 
quiet  refuge  in  an  apparently  uninhabited  wing  of 
the  building.  Having  absolutely  nothing  to  do 
(for  I  had  not  unpacked  my  thing'^^  I  sat  down  on 
the  bed  and  abandoned  myself  to  the  influences  of 
the  hour.     To  the  unexpected  influences.     .     .     . 


58  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

And  first  I  wondered  at  my  state  of  mind.  Why- 
was  I  not  more  surprised?  Why?  Here  I  was,  in- 
vested with  a  command  in  the  twinlding  of  an  eye, 
not  in  the  common  course  of  human  affairs,  but 
more  as  if  by  enchantment.  I  ought  to  have  been 
lost  in  astonishment.  But  I  wasn't.  I  was  very 
much  Uke  people  in  fairy  tales.  Nothing  ever 
astonishes  them.  WTien  a  fully  appointed  gala 
coach  is  produced  out  of  a  pumpkin  to  take 
her  to  a  ball,  Cinderella  does  not  exclaim.  She 
gets  in  quietly  and  drives  away  to  her  high  for- 
tune. 

Captain  Ellis  (a  fierce  sort  of  fairy)  had  pro- 
duced a  command  out  of  a  drawer  almost  as  un- 
expectedly as  in  a  fairy  tale.  But  a  command  is  an 
abstract  idea,  and  it  seemed  a  sort  of  "lesser 
marvel "  till  it  flashed  upon  me  that  it  involved  the 
concrete  existence  of  a  ship. 

A  ship!  My  ship!  She  was  mine,  more  abso- 
lutely mine  for  possession  and  care  than  anything 
in  the  world;  an  object  of  responsibility  and  de- 
votion. She  was  there  waiting  for  me,  spell-bound,  - 
unable  to  move,  to  Uve,  to  get  out  into  the  world 
(till  I  came),  like  an  enchanted  princess.  Her  call 
had  come  to  me  as  if  from  the  clouds.  I  had  never 
suspected  her  existence.     I  didn't  know  how  she 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  69 

looked,  I  had  barely  heard  her  name,  and  yet  we 
were  indissolubly  united  for  a  certain  portion  of  our 
future,  to  sink  or  swim  together! 

A  sudden  passion  of  anxious  impatience  rushed 
through  my  veins,  gave  me  such  a  sense  of  the  in- 
tensity of  existence  as  I  have  never  felt  before  or 
since.  I  discovered  how  much  of  a  seaman  I  was, 
in  heart,  in  mind,  and,  as  it  were,  physically — a 
man  exclusively  of  sea  and  ships;  the  sea  the  only 
world  that  counted,  and  the  ships,  the  test  of  man- 
Hness,  of  temperament,  of  courage  and  fidehty — 
and  of  love. 

I  had  an  exquisite  moment.  It  was  unique  also. 
Jumping  up  from  my  seat,  I  paced  up  and  down 
my  room  for  a  long  time.  But  when  I  came  down- 
stairs I  behaved  with  sufficient  ^  composure.  I 
only  couldn't  eat  anything  at  dinner. 

Having  declared  my  intention  not  to  drive  but 
to  walk  down  to  the  quay,  I  must  render  the 
wretched  Steward  justice  that  he  bestirred  himself 
to  find  me  some  coolies  for  the  luggage.  They  de- 
parted, carrying  all  my  worldly  possessions  (except 
a  little  money  I  had  in  my  pocket)  slung  from  a  long 
pole.  Captain  Giles  volunteered  to  walk  down 
with  me. 

We  followed  the  sombre,  shaded  alley  across  the 


60  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

Esplanade.  It  was  moderately  cool  there  under 
the  trees.  Captain  Giles  remarked,  with  a  sudden 
laugh :  '*  I  know  who's  jolly  thankful  at  having  seen 
the  last  of  you." 

I  guessed  that  he  meant  the  Steward.  The  fellow 
had  borne  himseK  to  me  in  a  sulldly  frightened 
manner  at  the  last.  I  expressed  my  wonder  that 
he  should  have  tried  to  do  me  a  bad  turn  for  no 
reason  at  all. 

"  Don't  you  see  that  what  he  wanted  w^as  to  get 
rid  of  our  friend  Hamilton  by  dodging  him  in  front 
of  you  for  that  job.^  That  would  have  removed 
him  for  good.     See.^" 

"Heavens!"  I  exclaimed,  feeling  humiliated 
somehow.  "Can  it  be  possible.'  What  a  fool  he 
must  be!  That  overbearing,  impudent  loafer! 
Why!  He  couldn't.  .  .  .  And  yet  he's  nearly 
done  it,  I  beheve;  for  the  Harbour  Office  was  bound 
to  send  somebody." 

"Aye.  A  fool  like  our  Steward  can  be  dangerous 
sometimes,"  declared  Captain  Giles  sententiously. 
"Just  because  he  is  a  fool,"  he  added,  imparting 
further  instruction  in  his  complacent  low  tones. 
"For,"  he  continued  in  the  manner  of  a  set  demon- 
stration, "no  sensible  person  would  risk  being 
kicked  out  of  the  only  berth  between  himseK  and 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  61 

starvation  just  to  get  rid  of  a  simple  annoyance — 
a  small  worry.     Would  he  now?" 

"Well,  no,"  1  conceded,  restraining  a  desire  to 
laugh  at  that  something  mysteriously  earnest  in 
dehvering  the  conclusions  of  his  wisdom  as  though 
it  were  the  product  of  prohibited  operations.  "  But 
that  fellow  looks  as  if  he  were  rather  crazy.  He 
must  be." 

"As  to  that,  I  believe  everybody  in  the  world  is  a 
little  mad,"  he  announced  quietly. 

"You  make  no  exceptions .f'"  I  inquired,  just  to 
hear  his  manner. 

He  kept  silent  for  a  httle  while,  tlieii  got  home  in 
an  effective  manner. 

"Why!     Kent  says  that  even  of  you." 

"Does  he.^*"  I  retorted,  extremely  embittered 
all  at  once  against  my  former  captain.  "There's 
nothing  of  that  in  the  written  character  from  him 
which  I've  got  in  my  pocket.  Has  he  given  you 
any  instances  of  my  lunacy  ?  " 

Captain  Giles  explained  in  a  conciliating  tone 
that  it  had  been  only  a  friendly  remark  in  refer- 
ence to  my  abrupt  leaving  the  ship  for  no  apparent 
reason. 

I  muttered  grumpily:  "Oh!  leaving  his  ship," 
and  mendecl  my  pace.     He  kept  up  by  my  side  in 


62  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

the  deep  gloom  of  the  avenue  as  if  it  were  his  con- 
scientious duty  to  see  me  out  of  the  colony  as  an 
undesirable  character.  He  panted  a  httle,  which 
was  rather  pathetic  in  a  way.  But  1  was  not 
moved.  On  the  contrary.  His  discomfort  gave 
me  a  sort  of  malicious  pleasure. 

Presently  I  relented,  slowed  down,  and  said: 

"Wliat  I  really  wanted  was  to  get  a  fresh  grip. 
I  felt  it  was  time.     Is  that  so  very  mad?" 

He  made  no  answer.  We  were  issuing  from  the 
avenue.  On  the  bridge  over  the  canal  a  dark,  ir- 
resolute figure  seemed  to  be  awaiting  something  or 
somebody. 

It  was  a  Malay  pohceman,  barefooted,  in  his 
blue  uniform.  The  silver  band  on  his  Kttle  round 
cap  shone  dimly  in  the  light  of  the  street  lamp.  He 
peered  in  our  direction  timidly. 

Before  we  could  come  up  to  him  he  turned  about 
and  walked  in  front  of  us  in  the  direction  of  the 
jetty.  The  distance  was  some  hundred  yards;  and 
then  I  found  my  coohes  squatting  on  their  heels. 
They  had  kept  the  pole  on  their  shoulders,  and  all 
my  worldly  goods,  still  tied  to  the  pole,  were  resting 
on  the  ground  between  them.  As  far  as  the  eye 
could  reach  along  the  quay  there  was  not  another 
soul  abroad  except  the  police  peon,  who  saluted  us. 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  63 

It  seems  he  had  detained  the  coolies  as  suspicious 
characters,  and  had  forbidden  them  the  jetty.  But 
at  a  sign  from  me  he  took  off  the  embargo  with 
alacrity.  The  two  patient  fellows,  rising  together 
with  a  faint  grunt,  trotted  off  along  the  planks,  and 
I  prepared  to  take  my  leave  of  Captain  Giles,  who 
stood  there  with  an  air  as  though  his  mission  were 
drawing  to  a  close.  It  could  not  be  denied  that  he 
had  done  it  all.  And  while  I  hesitated  about  an 
appropriate  sentence  he  made  himself  heard : 

"I  expect  you'll  have  your  hands  pretty  full  of 
tangled-up  business." 

I  asked  him  what  made  him  think  so;  and  he  an- 
swered that  it  was  his  general  experience  of  the 
world.  Ship  a  long  time  away  from  her  port^ 
owners  inaccessible  by  cable,  and  the  only  man  who 
could  explain  matters  dead  and  buried. 

"  And  you  yourself  new  to  the  business  in  a  way," 
he  concluded  in  a  sort  of  unanswerable  tone. 

"  Don't  insist,"  I  said.  "  I  know  it  only  too  well. 
I  only  wish  you  could  impart  to  me  some  small 
portion  of  your  experience  before  I  go.  As  it  can't 
be  done  in  ten  minutes  I  had  better  not  begin  to  ask 
you.  There's  that  harbour  launch  waiting  for  me, 
too.  But  I  won't  feel  really  at  peace  till  I  have  that 
ship  of  mine  out  in  the  Indian  Ocean." 


64  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

He  remarked  casually  that  from  Bangkok  to  the 
Indian  Ocean  was  a  pretty  long  step.  And  this 
murmur,  like  a  dim  flash  from  a  dark  lantern, 
showed  me  for  a  moment  the  broad  belt  of  islands 
and  reefs  between  that  unknown  ship,  which  was 
mine,  and  the  freedom  of  the  great  waters  of  the 
globe. 

But  I  felt  no  apprehension.  I  was  familiar 
enough  with  the  Archipelago  by  that  time.  Ex- 
treme patience  and  extreme  care  would  see  me 
through  the  region  of  broken  land,  of  faint  airs,  and 
of  dead  water  to  where  I  would  feel  at  last  my 
command  swing  on  the  great  swell  and  list  over  to 
the  great  breath  of  regular  winds,  that  would  give 
her  the  feeUng  of  a  large,  more  intense  life.  The 
road  would  be  long.  All  roads  are  long  that  lead 
toward  one's  heart's  desire.  But  this  road  my 
mind's  eye  could  see  on  a  chart,  professionally, 
with  all  its  complications  and  difficulties,  yet  simple 
enough  in  a  way.  One  is  a  seaman  or  one  is  not. 
And  I  had  no  doubt  of  being  one. 

The  only  part  I  was  a  stranger  to  was  the  Gulf  of 
Siam.  And  I  mentioned  this  to  Captain  Giles. 
Not  that  I  was  concerned  very  much.  It  belonged 
to  the  same  region  the  nature  of  which  I  knew,  into 
whose  very  soul  I  seemed  to  have  looked  during  the 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  65 

last  months  of  that  existence  with  which  I  had 
broken  now,  suddenly,  as  one  parts  with  some  en- 
chanting company. 

"The  gulf  .  .  .  Ay!  A  funnj'^  piece  of 
water — that,"  said  Captain  Giles. 

Fmmy,  in  this  connection,  was  a  vague  word. 
The  whole  thing  sounded  like  an  opinion  uttered 
by  a  cautious  person  mindful  of  actions  for  slander. 

I  didn't  inquire  as  to  the  nature  of  that  funni- 
ness.  There  was  really  no  time.  But  at  the  very 
last  he  volunteered  a  warning.  ^ 

"Whatever  you  do  keep  to  the  east  side  of  it. 
The  west  side  is  dangerous  at  this  time  of  the  year. 
Don't  let  anything  tempt  you  over.  You'll  find 
nothing  but  trouble  there." 

Though  I  could  hardly  imagine  what  could  tempt 
me  to  involve  my  ship  amongst  the  currents  and 
reefs  of  the  Malay  shore,  I  thanked  him  for  the 
advice. 

He  gripped  my  extended  arm  warmly,  and  the 
end  of  our  acquaintance  came  suddenly  in  the 
words:   "Good-night." 

That  was  all  he  said:  "Good-night."  Nothing 
more.  I  don't  know  what  I  intended  to  say,  but 
surprise  made  me  swallow  it,  whatever  it  was.  I 
choked  slightly,  and  then  exclaimed  with  a  sort  of 


66  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

nervous  haste:  "Oh!  Good-night,  Captain  Giles, 
good -night." 

His  movements  were  always  deliberate,  but  his 
back  had  receded  some  distance  along  the  deserted 
quay  before  I  collected  myself  enough  to  follow  his 
example  and  made  a  half  turn  in  the  direction  of 
the  jetty. 

Only  my  movements  were  not  deliberate.  I 
hurried  down  to  the  steps,  and  leaped  into  the 
launch.  Before  I  had  fairly  landed  in  her  stem- 
sheets  the  slim  Uttle  craft  darted  away  from  the 
jetty  with  a  sudden  swirl  of  her  propeller  and  the 
hard,  rapid  puffing  of  the  exhaust  in  her  vaguely 
glerming  brass  funnel  amidships. 

The  misty  churning  at  her  stem  was  the  only 
sound  in  the  world.  The  shore  lay  plunged  in  the 
silence  of  the  deeper  slumber.  I  watched  the  town 
recede  still  and  soundless  in  the  hot  night,  till  the 
abrupt  hail,  "Steam-launch,  ahoy!"  made  me  spin 
round  face  forward.  We  were  close  to  a  white, 
ghostly  steamer.  Lights  shone  on  her  decks,  in  her 
portholes.     And  the  same  voice  shouted  from  her: 

"Is  that  our  passenger.'*" 

"It  is,"  I  yelled. 

Her  crew  had  been  obviously  on  the  jump.  I 
could   hear   them   running   about.     The   modem 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  67 

spirit  of  haste  was  loudly  vocal  in  the  orders  to 
"Heave  away  on  the  cable" — to  "Lower  the  side- 
ladder,"  and  in  urgent  requests  to  me  to  "Come 
along,  sir !  We  have  been  delayed  three  hours  for 
you.  .  .  .  Our  time  is  seven  o'clock,  you 
know!" 

I  stepped  on  the  deck.  I  said  "No!  I  don't 
know."  The  spirit  of  modem  hurry  was  embodied 
in  a  thin,  long-armed,  long-legged  man,  with  a 
closely  clipped  gray  beard.  His  meagre  hand  was 
hot  and  dry.     He  declared  feverishly: 

'*I  am  hanged  if  I  would  have  waited  anothet- 
five  minutes  Harbour-Master  or  no  Harbour- 
Master."     . 

"That's  your  own  business,"  I  said.  "I  didn't 
ask  you  to  wait  for  me." 

"I  hope  you  don't  expect  any  supper,"  he  burst 
out.  "  This  isn't  a  boarding-house  afloat.  You  are 
the  first  passenger  I  ever  had  in  my  life  and  I  hope 
to  goodness  you  will  be  the  last." 

I  made  no  answer  to  this  hospitable  communi- 
cation; and,  indeed,  he  didn't  wait  for  any,  bolting 
away  on  to  his  bridge  to  get  his  ship  under  way. 

For  the  three  days  he  had  me  on  board  he  did  not 
depart  from  that  half-hostile  attitude.  His  ship 
having  been  delayed  three  hours  on  my  account  he 


68  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

couldn't  forgive  me  for  not  being  a  more  distin- 
guished person.  He  was  not  exactly  outspoken 
about  it,  but  that  feeling  of  annoyed  wonder  was 
peeping  out  perpetually  in  his  talk. 

He  was  absurd. 

He  was  also  a  man  of  much  experience,  which  he 
liked  to  trot  out;  but  no  greater  contrast  with  Cap- 
tain Giles  could  have  been  imagined.  He  would 
have  amused  me  if  I  had  wanted  to  be  amused. 
But  I  did  not  want  to  be  amused.  I  was  like  a 
lover  looking  forward  to  a  meeting.  Human  hos- 
tihty  was  nothing  to  me.  I  thought  of  my  un- 
known ship.  It  was  amusement  enough,  torment 
enough,  occupation  enough. 

He  perceived  my  state,  for  his  wits  were  suffi- 
ciently sharp  for  that,  and  he  poked  sly  fun  at  my 
preoccupation  in  the  manner  some  nasty,  cynical 
old  men  assume  toward  the  dreams  and  illusions  of 
youth.  I,  on  my  side,  refrained  from  questioning 
him  as  to  the  appearance  of  my  ship,  though  I 
knew  that  being  in  Bangkok  every  fortnight  or  so  he 
must  have  known  her  by  sight.  I  was  not  going  to 
expose  the  ship,  my  ship!  to  some  shghting 
reference. 

He  was  the  first  really  unsympathetic  man  I  had 
ever  come  in  contact  with.     My  education  was  far 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  69 

from  being  finished,  though  I  didn't  know  it.  No ! 
I  didn't  know  it. 

All  I  knew  was  that  he  disliked  me  and  had  some 
contempt  for  my  person.  Why.f^  Apparently 
because  his  ship  had  been  delayed  three  hours  on 
my  account.  Who  was  I  to  have  such  a  thing  done 
for  me?  Such  a  thing  had  never  been  done  for  him. 
It  was  a  sort  of  jealous  indignation. 

My  expectation,  mingled  with  fear,  was  wrought 
to  its  highest  pitch.  How  slow  had  been  the  days 
of  the  passage  and  how  soon  they  were  over.  One 
morning,  early,  we  crossed  the  bar,  and  while  the 
sun  was  rising  splendidly  over  the  flat  spaces  of  the 
land  we  steamed  up  the  innumerable  bends,  passed 
under  the  shadow  of  the  great  gilt  pagoda,  and 
reached  the  outsldrts  of  the  town. 

There  it  was,  spread  largely  on  both  banks,  the 
Oriental  capital  which  had  as  yet  suffered  no  white 
conqueror;  an  expanse  of  brown  houses  of  bamboo, 
of  mats,  of  leaves,  of  a  vegetable-matter  style  of 
architecture,  sprung  out  of  the  brown  soil  on  the 
banks  of  the  muddy  river.  It  was  amazing  to  think 
that  in  those  miles  of  human  habitations  there  was 
not  probably  half  a  dozen  pounds  of  nails.  Some 
of  those  houses  of  sticks  and  grass,  like  the  nests  of 
an  aquatic  race,  clung  to  the  low  shores.     Others 


70  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

seemed  to  grow  out  of  the  water;  others  again 
floated  in  long  anchored  rows  in  the  very  middle  of 
the  stream.  Here  and  there  in  the  distance,  above 
the  crowded  mob  of  low,  brown  roof  ridges,  towered 
great  piles  of  masonry.  King's  Palace,  temples, 
gorgeous  and  dilapidated,  crumbling  under  the 
vertical  sunhght,  tremendous,  overpowering,  al- 
most palpable,  which  seemed  to  enter  one's  breast 
with  the  breath  of  one's  nostrils  and  soak  into  one's 
limbs  through  every  pore  of  one's  skin. 

The  ridiculous  victim  of  jealousy  had  for  some 
reason  or  other  to  stop  his  engines  just  then.  The 
steamer  drifted  slowly  up  with  the  tide.  Obhvious 
of  my  new  surroundings  I  walked  the  deck,  in  anx- 
ious, deadened  abstraction,  a  commingling  of 
romantic  reverie  with  a  very  practical  survey  of 
my  qualifications.  For  the  time  was  approaching 
for  me  to  behold  my  command  and  to  prove  my 
worth  in  the  ultimate  test  of  my  profession. 

Suddenly  I  heard  myself  called  by  that  imbe- 
cile. He  was  beckoning  me  to  come  up  on  his 
bridge. 

I  didn't  care  very  much  for  that,  but  as  it 
seemed  that  he  had  something  particular  to  say  I 
went  up  the  ladder. 

He  laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder  and  gave  me  a 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  71 

slight  turn,  pointing  with  his  other  arm  at  the  same 
time. 

"There!    That's  yom*  ship.  Captain,"  he  said. 

I  felt  a  thump  in  my  breast — only  one,  as  if  my 
heart  had  then  ceased  to  beat.  There  were  ten  or 
more  ships  moored  along  the  bank,  and  the  one 
he  meant  was  partly  hidden  from  my  sight  by  her 
next  astern.  He  said:  "We'll  drift  abreast  her  in 
a  moment." 

What  was  his  tone.^  Mocking?  Threatening? 
Or  only  indifferent?  I  could  not  tell.  I  suspected 
some  malice  in  this  unexpected  manifestation  of 
interest. 

He  left  me,  and  I  leaned  over  the  rail  of  the 
bridge  looking  over  the  side.  I  dared  not  raise  my 
eyes.  Yet  it  had  to  be  done — and,  indeed,  I  could 
not  have  helped  myself.     I  believe  I  trembled. 

But  directly  my  eyes  had  rested  on  my  ship  all 
my  fear  vanished.  It  went  off  swiftly,  like  a  bad 
dream.  Only  that  a  dream  leaves  no  shame  be- 
hind it,  and  that  I  felt  a  momentary  shame  at  my 
unworthy  suspicions. 

Yes,  there  she  was.  Her  hull,  her  rigging  filled 
my  eye  with  a  great  content.  That  feeling  of  life- 
emptiness  which  had  made  me  so  restless  for  the 
last  few  months  lost  its  bitter  plausibility,  its  evil 


7?  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

influence,  dissolved  in  a  flow  of  joyous  emo- 
tion. 

At  first  glance  I  saw  that  she  was  a  high-class 
vessel,  a  harmonious  creature  in  the  lines  of  her 
fine  body,  in  the  proportioned  tallness  of  her  spars. 
Whatever  her  age  and  her  history,  she  had  pre- 
served the  stamp  of  her  origin.  She  was  one  of 
those  craft  that,  in  virtue  of  their  design  and  com^ 
plete  finish,  will  never  look  old.  Amongst  her  com- 
panions moored  to  the  bank,  and  all  bigger  than 
herself,  she  looked  Kke  a  creature  of  high  breed — ■ 
an  Arab  steed  in  a  string  of  cart-horses. 

A  voice  behind  me  said  in  a  nasty  equivocal  tone: 
"I  hope  you  are  satisfied  with  her.  Captain."  I 
did  not  even  turn  my  head.  It  was  the  master  of 
the  steamer,  and  whatever  he  meant,  whatever  he 
thought  of  her,  I  knew  that,  like  some  rare  women, 
she  was  one  of  those  creatures  whose  mere  existence 
is  enough  to  awaken  an  unselfish  delight.  One 
feels  that  it  is  good  to  be  in  the  world  in  which  she 
has  her  being. 

That  illusion  of  life  and  character  which  charms 
one  in  men's  finest  handiwork  radiated  from  her. 
An  enormous  bulk  of  teak- wood  timber  swung  over 
her  hatchway;  lifeless  matter,  looking  heavier  and 
bigger  than  anything  aboard  of  her.     When  they 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  73 

started  lowering  it  the  surge  of  the  taclde  sent  a 
quiver  through  her  from  water-hne  to  the  trucks  up 
the  fine  nerves  of  her  rigging,  as  though  she  had 
shuddered  at  the  weight.  It  seemed  cruel  to  load 
her  so.     .     .     . 

Half  an  hour  later,  putting  my  foot  on  her  deck 
for  the  first  time,  I  received  the  feeling  of  deep 
physical  satisfaction.  Nothing  could  equal  the 
fullness  of  that  moment,  the  ideal  completeness  of 
that  emotional  experience  which  had  come  to  me 
without  the  preliminary  toil  and  disenchantments 
of  an  obscure  career. 

My  rapid  glance  ran  over  her,  enveloped,  ap- 
propriated the  form  concreting  the  abstract  senti- 
ment of  my  command.  A  lot  of  details  perceptible 
to  a  seaman  struck  my  eye,  vividly  in  that  instant. 
For  the  rest,  I  saw  her  disengaged  from  the  material 
conditions  of  her  being.  The  shore  to  which  she 
was  moored  was  as  if  it  did  not  exist.  What  were 
to  me  all  the  countries  of  the  globe. ^^  In  all  the 
parts  of  the  world  washed  by  navigable  waters  our 
relation  to  each  other  would  be  the  same — and 
more  intimate  than  there  are  words  to  express  in 
the  language.  Apart  from  that,  every  scene  and 
episode  would  be  a  mere  passing  show.  The  very 
gang  of  yellow  coolies  busy  about  the  main  hatch 


74  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

was  less  substantial  than  the  stuff  dreams  are  made 
of.  For  who  on  earth  would  dream  of  China- 
men?    .     .     . 

I  went  aft,  ascended  the  poop,  where,  under  the 
awning,  gleamed  the  brasses  of  the  yacht-iike 
fittings,  the  polished  surfaces  of  the  rails,  the  glass 
of  the  skylights.  Right  aft  two  seamen,  busy 
cleaning  the  steering  gear,  with  the  reflected  ripples 
of  hght  running  playfully  up  their  bent  backs,  went 
on  with  their  work,  unaware  of  me  and  of  the  al- 
most affectionate  glance  I  threw  at  them  in  passing 
toward  the  companion-way  of  the  cabin. 

The  doors  stood  wide  open,  the  slide  was  pushed 
right  back.  The  haK-tum  of  the  staircase  cut  off 
the  view  of  the  lobby.  A  low  humming  ascended 
from  below,  but  it  stopped  abruptly  at  the  sound  of 
my  descending  footsteps. 


m 

The  first  thing  I  saw  down  there  was  the  upper  part 
of  a  man's  body  projecting  backward,  as  it  were, 
Crom  one  of  the  doors  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  His 
eyes  looked  at  me  very  wide  and  still.  In  one  hand 
he  held  a  dinner  plate,  in  the  other  a  cloth. 

"I  am  your  new  Captain,"  I  said  quietly. 

In  a  moment,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  he  had 
got  rid  of  the  plate  and  the  cloth  and  jumped  to 
open  the  cabin  door.  As  soon  as  I  passed  into  the 
saloon  he  vanished,  but  only  to  reappear  instantly, 
buttoning  up  a  jacket  he  had  put  on  with  the 
swiftness  of  a  "quick-change"  artist. 

"Where's  the  cliief  mate?"  I  asked. 

"In  the  hold,  I  think,  sir.  I  saw  him  go  down 
the  after-hatch  ten  minutes  ago." 

"Tell  him  I  am  on  board." 

The  mahogany  table  under  the  skylight  shone  in 
the  twihght  like  a  dark  pool  of  water.  The  side- 
board, surmounted  by  a  wide  looking-glass  in  an 
ormulu  frame,  had  a  marble  top.  It  bore  a  pair  of 
silver-plated    lamps    and    some    other    pieces — 

75 


76  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

obviously  a  harbour  display.  The  saloon  itself 
was  panelled  in  two  kinds  of  wood  in  the  excellent 
simple  taste  prevailing  when  the  ship  was  built. 

I  sat  down  in  the  armchair  at  the  head  of  the 
table — the  captain's  chair,  with  a  small  tell-tale 
compass  swung  above  it — a  mute  reminder  of  un- 
remitting vigilance. 

A  succession  of  men  had  sat  in  that  chair.  I  be- 
came aware  of  that  thought  suddenly,  vividly,  as 
though  each  had  left  a  little  of  himself  between  the 
four  walls  of  these  ornate  bulkheads;  as  if  a  sort  of 
composite  soul,  the  soul  of  command,  had  whispered 
suddenly  to  mine  of  long  days  at  sea  and  of  anxious 
moments. 

"You,  too!"  it  seemed  to  say,  "you,  too,  shall 
taste  of  that  peace  and  that  unrest  in  a  searching 
intimacy  with  your  own  self — obscure  as  we  were 
and  as  supreme  in  the  face  of  all  the  winds  and  all 
the  seas,  in  an  immensity  that  receives  no  impress, 
preserves  no  memories,  and  keeps  no  reckoning  of 
lives." 

Deep  within  the  tarnished  ormulu  frame,  in  the 
hot  half-light  sifted  through  the  awTiing,  I  saw  my 
own  face  propped  betw^een  my  hands.  And  I 
stared  back  at  myseK  with  the  perfect  detachment 
of  distance,  rather  with  curiosity  than  with  any 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  77 

other  feeling,  except  of  some  sympathy  for  this 
latest  representative  of  what  for  all  intents  and 
purposes  was  a  dynasty,  continuous  not  in  blood 
indeed,  but  in  its  experience,  in  its  training,  in  its 
conception  of  duty,  and  in  the  blessed  simplicity  of 
its  traditional  point  of  view  on  life. 

It  struck  me  that  this  quietly  staring  man  whom 
I  was  watching,  both  as  if  he  were  myself  and  some- 
body else,  was  not  exactly  a  lonely  figure.  He  had 
his  place  in  a  line  of  men  whom  he  did  not  know,  of 
whom  he  had  never  heard;  but  who  were  fashioned 
by  the  same  influences,  whose  souls  in  relation  to 
their  humble  life's  work  had  no  secrets  for  him. 

Suddenly  I  perceived  that  there  was  another  man 
in  the  saloon,  standing  a  little  on  one  side  and  look- 
ing intently  at  me.  The  chief  mate.  His  long, 
red  moustache  determined  the  character  of  his 
physiognomy,  which  struck  me  as  pugnacious  in 
(strange  to  say)  a  ghastly  sort  of  way. 

How  long  had  he  been  there  looking  at  me,  ap- 
praising me  in  my  unguarded  day-dreaming  state.'' 
I  would  have  been  more  disconcerted  if,  having  the 
clock  set  in  the  top  of  the  mirror-frame  right  in 
front  of  me,  I  had  not  noticed  that  its  long  hand 
had  hardly  moved  at  all. 

I  could  not  have  been  in  that  cabin  more  than 


78  THE  SHADOW  LINE  . 

two  minutes  altogether.  Say  three.  ...  So 
he  could  not  have  been  watching  me  more  than  a 
mere  fraction  of  a  minute,  luckily.  Still,  I  re- 
gretted the  occurrence. 

But  I  showed  nothing  of  it  as  I  rose  leisurely  (it 
had  to  be  leisurely)  and  greeted  him  with  perfect 
friendliness. 

There  was  something  reluctant  and  at  the  same 
time  attentive  in  his  bearing.  His  name  was 
Burns.  We  left  the  cabin  and  went  round  the  ship 
together.  His  face  in  the  full  light  of  day  ap- 
peared very  pale,  meagre,  even  haggard.  Some- 
how I  had  a  dehcacj'  as  to  looking  too  often  at  him; 
his  eyes,  on  the  contrary,  remained  fairly  glued  on 
my  face.  They  were  greenish  and  had  an  ex- 
pectant expression. 

He  answered  all  my  questions  readily  enough, 
but  my  ear  seemed  to  catch  a  tone  of  unwillingness. 
The  second  officer,  with  three  or  four  hands,  was 
busy  forward.  The  mate  mentioned  his  name  and 
I  nodded  to  him  in  passing.  He  was  very  young. 
He  struck  me  as  rather  a  cub. 

W^hen  we  returned  below,  I  sat  down  on  one  end 
of  a  deep,  semi-circular,  or,  rather,  semi-oval  settee, 
upholstered  in  red  plush.  It  extended  right  across 
the  whole  after-end  of  the  cabin.    IVir.   Burns 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  79 

motioned  to  sit  down,  dropped  into  one  of  the 
swivel-chairs  round  the  table,  and  kept  his  eyes  on 
me  as  persistently  as  ever,  and  with  that  strange  air 
as  if  all  this  were  make-believe  and  he  expected  me 
to  get  up,  burst  into  a  laugh,  slap  him  on  the  back, 
and  vanish  from  the  cabin. 

There  was  an  odd  stress  in  the  situation  which 
began  to  make  me  uncomfortable.  I  tried  to  react 
against  this  vague  feeling. 

"It's  only  my  inexperience,"  I  thought. 

In  the  face  of  that  man,  several  years,  I  judged, 
older  than  myself,  I  became  aware  of  what  I  had 
left  already  behind  me — my  youth.  And  that  was 
indeed  poor  comfort.  Youth  is  a  fine  thing,  a 
mighty  power — as  long  as  one  does  not  think  of 
it.  I  felt  I  was  becoming  self-conscious.  Almost 
against  my  will  I  assumed  a  moody  gravity.  I 
said :  "I  see  you  have  kept  her  in  very  good  order, 
Mr.  Bums." 

Directly  I  had  uttered  these  words  I  asked  my- 
self angrily  why  the  deuce  did  I  want  to  say  that? 
Mr.  Bums  in  answer  had  only  blinked  at  me.  What 
on  earth  did  he  mean.'' 

I  fell  back  on  a  question  which  had  been  in  my 
thoughts  for  a  long  time — the  most  natural  ques- 
tion on  the  lips  of  any  seaman  whatever  joining  a 


80  THE  SKLVDOW  LINE 

ship.  I  voiced  it  (confound  this  self-consciousness) 
in  a  degagS  cheerful  tone :  "I  suppose  she  can  travel 
—what?" 

Now  a  question  like  this  might  have  been  an- 
swered normally,  either  in  accents  of  apologetic 
sorrow  or  with  a  visibly  suppressed  pride,  in  a  "I 
don't  want  to  boast,  but  you  shall  see,"  sort  of 
tone.  There  are  sailors,  too,  who  would  have  been 
roughly  outspoken:  "Lazy  brute,"  or  openly  de- 
lighted: "She's  a  flyer."  Two  ways,  if  four 
manners. 

But  INIr.  Burns  found  another  way,  a  way  of  his 
own  which  had,  at  all  events,  the  merit  of  saving 
his  breath,  if  no  other. 

Again  he  did  not  say  anything.  He  only 
frowned.  And  it  was  an  angry  frowTi.  I  waited. 
Nothing  more  came. 

"WTiat's  the  matter?  .  .  .  Can't  you  tell 
after  being  nearly  two  years  in  the  ship?"  I  ad- 
dressed him  sharply. 

He  looked  as  startled  for  a  moment  as  though  he 
had  discovered  my  presence  only  that  very  mo- 
ment. But  this  passed  off  almost  at  once.  He 
put  on  an  air  of  indifference.  But  I  suppose  he 
thought  it  better  to  say  something.  He  said  that  a 
ship  needed,  just  like  a  man,  the  chance  to  show  the 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  8X 

best  she  could  do,  and  that  tliis  ship  had  never  had 
a  chance  since  he  had  been  on  board  of  her.  Not 
that  he  could  remember.  The  last  captain.  .  .  . 
He  paused. 

"Has  he  been  so  very  unlucky?"  I  asked  with 
frank  incredulity.  Mr.  Burns  turned  his  eyes  away 
from  me.  No,  the  late  captain  was  not  an  unlucky 
man.  One  couldn't  say  that.  But  he  had  not 
seemed  to  want  to  make  use  of  his  luck. 

Mr.  Burns — man  of  enigmatic  moods — made 
this  statement  with  an  inanimate  face  and  staring 
wilfully  at  the  rudder  casing.  The  statement  itself 
was  obscurely  suggestive.     I  asked  quietly: 

"\^Tieredidhedie.?" 

"In  tliis  saloon.  Just  where  you  are  sitting 
now,"  answered  Mr.  Burns. 

I  repressed  a  silly  impulse  to  jump  up ;  but  upon 
the  whole  I  was  relieved  to  hear  that  he  had  not 
died  in  the  bed  which  was  now  to  be  mine.  I 
pointed  out  to  the  chief  mate  that  what  I  really 
wanted  to  know  was  where  he  had  buried  his  late 
captain. 

Mr.  Burns  said  that  it  was  at  the  entrance  to  the 
gulf.  A  roomy  grave;  a  sufficient  answer.  But 
the  mate,  overcoming  visibly  something  within  him 
— something  like  a  curious  reluctance  to  believe  in 


82  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

my  advent  (as  an  irrevocable  fact,  at  any  rate) ,  did 
not  stop  at  that — though,  indeed,  he  may  have 
wished  to  do  so. 

As  a  compromise  with  his  feelings,  I  beheve,  he 
addressed  himself  persistently  to  the  rudder-casing, 
so  that  to  me  he  had  the  appearance  of  a  man 
talking  in  solitude,  a  httle  unconsciously,  however. 

His  tale  was  that  at  seven  bells  in  the  forenoon 
watch  he  had  all  hands  mustered  on  the  quarter- 
deck and  told  them  they  had  better  go  down  to  say 
good-bye  to  the  captain. 

Those  words,  as  if  grudged  to  an  intruding  per- 
sonage, were  enough  for  me  to  evoke  vividly  that 
strange  ceremony:  The  bare-footed,  bare-headed 
seamen  crowding  shyly  into  that  cabin,  a  small 
mob  pressed  against  that  sideboard,  uncomfortable 
rather  than  moved,  shirts  open  on  sunburnt  chests, 
weather-beaten  faces,  and  all  staring  at  the  dying 
man  with  the  same  grave  and  expectant  expression. 

"Was  he  conscious.''"  I  asked. 

"He  didn't  speak,  but  he  moved  his  eyes  to  look 
at  them,"  said  the  mate. 

After  waiting  a  moment,  Mr.  Burns  motioned 
the  crew  to  leave  the  cabin,  but  he  detained  the  two 
eldest  men  to  stay  with  the  captain  while  he  went 
on  deck  with  his  sextant  to  "take  the  sun."     It 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  83 

was  getting  toward  noon  and  he  was  anxious  to 
obtain  a  good  observation  for  latitude.  When  he 
returned  below  to  put  his  sextant  away  he  found 
that  the  two  men  had  retreated  out  into  the  lobby. 
Through  the  open  door  he  had  a  view  of  the  captain 
lying  easy  against  the  pillows.  He  had  "passed 
away"  while  Mr.  Bums  was  taking  this  observa- 
tion. As  near  noon  as  possible.  He  had  hardly 
changed  his  position. 

IMr.  Bums  sighed,  glanced  at  me  inquisitively, 
as  much  as  to  say,  "Aren't  you  going  yet.'' "and  then 
turned  his  thoughts  from  his  new  captain  back  to 
the  old,  who,  being  dead,  had  no  authority,  was  not 
in  anybody's  way,  and  was  much  easier  to  deal  with. 

Mr.  Bums  dealt  with  him  at  some  length.  He 
was  a  peculiar  man — of  sixty -five  about — iron  gray, 
hard-faced,  obstinate,  and  uncommunicative.  He 
used  to  keep  the  ship  loafing  at  sea  for  inscrutable 
reasons.  Would  come  on  deck  at  night  sometimes, 
take  some  sail  off  her,  God  only  knows  why  or 
wherefore,  then  go  below,  shut  himself  up  in  liis 
cabin,  and  play  on  the  violin  for  hours — till  day- 
break perhaps.  In  fact,  he  spent  most  of  his  time 
day  or  night  playing  the  violin.  That  was  when 
the  fit  took  him.     Very  loud,  too. 

It  came  to  this,  that  Mr.  Burns  mustered  his 


84  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

courage  one  day  and  remonstrated  earnestly  with 
the  captain.  Neither  he  nor  the  second  mate 
could  get  a  wink  of  sleep  in  their  watches  below  for 
the  noise.  .  .  .  And  how  could  they  be  ex- 
pected to  keep  awake  while  on  duty?  He  pleaded. 
The  answer  of  that  stern  man  was  that  if  he  and  the 
second  mate  didn't  like  the  noise,  they  were  wel- 
come to  pack  up  their  traps  and  walk  over  the  side. 
WTien  this  alternative  was  offered  the  ship  hap- 
pened to  be  600  miles  from  the  nearest  land. 

Mr.  Burns  at  this  point  looked  at  me  with  an  air 
of  curiosity.  I  began  to  think  that  my  predecessor 
was  a  remarkably  peculiar  old  man. 

But  I  had  to  hear  stranger  things  yet.  It  came 
out  that  this  stern,  grim,  wind-tanned,  rough,  sea- 
salted,  taciturn  sailor  of  sixty -five  was  not  only  an 
artist,  but  a  lover  as  well.  In  Haiphong,  when 
they  got  there  after  a  course  of  most  unprofitable 
peregrinations  (during  which  the  ship  was  nearly 
lost  twice),  he  got  himself,  in  Mr.  Bums'  own. 
words,  "  mixed  up  "  with  some  woman.  Mr.  Bums 
had  had  no  personal  knowledge  of  that  affair,  but 
positive  evidence  of  it  existed  in  the  shape  of  a 
photograph  taken  in  Haiphong.  Mr.  Burns  found 
it  in  one  of  the  drawers  in  the  captain's  room. 

In  due  course  I,  too,  saw  that  amazing  human 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  85 

document  (I  even  threw  it  overboard  later). 
There  he  sat,  with  his  hands  reposing  on  his  knees, 
bald,  squat,  gray,  bristly,  recalHng  a  wild  boar 
somehow;  and  by  his  side  towered  an  awful  mature, 
white  female  with  rapacious  nostrils  and  a  cheaply 
ill-omened  stare  in  her  enormous  eyes.  She  was 
disguised  in  some  semi-oriental,  vulgar,  fancy 
costume.  She  resembled  a  low-class  m.edium  or 
one  of  those  women  who  tell  fortunes  by  cards  for 
half  a  crown.  And  yet  she  was  striking.  A  pro- 
fessional sorceress  from  the  slums.  It  was  incom- 
prehensible. There  was  something  awful  in  the 
thought  that  she  was  the  last  reflection  of  the  world 
of  passion  for  the  fierce  soul  which  seemed  to  look 
at  one  out  of  the  sardonically  savage  face  of  that  old 
seaman.  However,  I  noticed  that  she  was  holding 
some  musical  instrument — guitar  or  mandoline — 
in  her  hand.  Perhaps  that  was  the  secret  of  her 
sortilege. 

For  Mr.  Burns  that  photograph  explained  why 
the  unloaded  ship  has  kept  sweltering  at  anchor 
for  three  weeks  in  a  pestilential  hot  harbour  with- 
out air.  They  lay  there  and  gasped.  The  cap- 
tain, appearing  now  and  then  on  short  visits, 
mumbled  to  Mr.  Burns  unlikely  tales  about  some 
letters  he  was  waiting  for. 


86  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

Suddenly,  after  vanishing  for  a  week,  he  came  on 
board  in  the  middle  of  the  night  and  took  the  ship 
out  to  sea  ^^^th  the  first  break  of  dawn.  Dayhght 
showed  him  looking  wild  and  ill.  The  mere  getting 
clear  of  the  land  took  two  days,  and  somehow  or 
other  they  bumped  slightly  on  a  reef.  However, 
no  leak  developed,  and  the  captain,  growHng  "no 
matter,"  informed  Mr.  Burns  that  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  take  the  ship  to  Hong-Kong  and  dry- 
dock  her  there. 

At  this  ]Mr.  Bums  was  plunged  into  despair.  For 
indeed,  to  beat  up  to  Hong-Kong  against  a  fierce 
monsoon,  with  a  ship  not  sufficiently  ballasted  and 
with  her  supply  of  water  not  completed,  was  an  in- 
sane project. 

But  the  captain  growled  peremptorily,  "Stick 
her  at  it,"  and  INIr.  Bums,  dismayed  and  enraged, 
stuck  her  at  it,  and  kept  her  at  it,  blowing  away 
sails,  straining  the  spars,  exhausting  the  crew — 
nearly  maddened  by  the  absolute  conviction  that 
the  attempt  was  impossible  and  was  bound  to  end 
in  some  catastrophe. 

Meantime  the  captain,  shut  up  in  his  cabin  and 
wedged  in  a  comer  of  his  settee  against  the  crazy 
bounding  of  the  ship,  played  the  violin — or,  at  any 
rate,  made  continuous  noise  on  it. 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  87 

When  he  appeared  on  deck  he  would  not  speak 
and  not  always  answer  when  spoken  to.  It  was 
obvious  that  he  was  ill  in  some  mysterious  manner, 
and  beginning  to  break  up. 

As  the  days  went  by  the  sounds  of  the  violin  be- 
came less  and  less  loud,  till  at  last  only  a  feeble 
scratching  would  meet  Mr.  Bums'  ear  as  he  stood 
in  the  saloon  listening  outside  the  door  of  the  cap- 
tain's state-room. 

One  afternoon  in  perfect  desperation  he  burst 
into  that  room  and  made  such  a  scene,  tearing  his 
hair  and  shouting  such  horrid  imprecations  that  he 
cowed  the  contemptuous  spirit  of  the  sick  man. 
The  water-tanks  were  low,  they  had  not  gained  fifty 
miles  in  a  fortnight.  She  would  never  reach  Hong- 
Kong. 

It  was  like  fighting  desperately  toward  destruc- 
tion for  the  ship  and  the  men.  This  was  evident 
without  argument.  Mr.  Burns,  losing  all  restraint, 
put  his  face  close  to  his  captain's  and  fairly 
yelled:  "  You,  sir,  are  going  out  of  the  world.  But 
I  can't  wait  till  you  are  dead  before  I  put  the  helm 
up.     You  must  do  it  yourself.     You  must  do  it 


now 


The  man  on  the  couch  snarled  in  contempt. 
'So  I  am  going  out  of  the  world — am  I?" 


88  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

"Yes,  sir — you  haven't  many  days  left  in  it,'' 
said  Mr.  Burns  calming  down.  "One  can  see  it  by 
your  face." 

"My  face,  eli.'^  .  .  .  Well,  put  up  the  helm 
and  be  damned  to  you." 

Burns  flew  on  deck,  got  the  ship  before  the  wind, 
then  came  down  again  composed,  but  resolute. 

"I've  shaped  a  course  for  Pulo  Condor,  sir,"  he 
said.  "When  we  make  it,  if  you  are  still  with  us, 
you'll  tell  me  into  what  port  you  wish  me  to  take 
the  ship  and  I'll  do  it." 

The  old  man  gave  him  a  look  of  savage  spite, 
and  said  those  atrocious  words  in  deadly,  slow 
tones. 

"If  I  had  my  wish,  neither  the  ship  nor  any  of 
you  would  ever  reach  a  port.  And  I  hope  you 
won't." 

Mr.  Burns  w^as  profoundly  shocked.  I  believe 
he  was  positively  frightened  at  the  time.  It  seems, 
however,  that  he  managed  to  produce  such  an 
effective  laugh  that  it  was  the  old  man's  turn  to  be 
frightened.  He  shrank  within  himself  and  turned 
his  back  on  him. 

"And  his  head  was  not  gone  then,"  Mr.  Burns 
assured  me  excitedly.  "He  meant  every  word  of 
it." 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  8d 

Such  was  practically  the  late  captain's  last 
speech.  No  connected  sentence  passed  his  lips 
afterward.  That  night  he  used  the  last  of  his 
strength  to  throw  his  fiddle  over  the  side.  No  one 
had  actually  seen  him  in  the  act,  but  after  his 
death  Mr.  Burns  couldn't  find  the  thing  anywhere. 
The  empty  case  was  very  much  in  evidence,  but 
the  fiddle  was  clearly  not  in  the  ship.  And  where 
else  could  it  have  gone  to  but  overboard?" 

"Threw  his  violin  overboard!"  I  exclaimed. 

"He  did,"  cried  Mr.  Burns  excitedly.  "And 
it's  my  belief  he  would  have  tried  to  take  the  ship 
down  with  him  if  it  had  been  in  human  power.  He 
never  meant  her  to  see  home  again.  He  wouldn't 
write  to  his  owners,  he  never  wrote  to  his  old  wife, 
either — he  wasn't  going  to.  He  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  cut  adrift  from  everything.  That's  what 
it  was.  He  didn't  care  for  business,  or  freights,  or 
for  making  a  passage — or  anything.  He  meant  to 
have  gone  wandering  about  the  world  till  he  lost  her 
with  all  hands." 

Mr.  Burns  looked  like  a  man  who  had  escaped 
great  danger.  For  a  little  he  would  have  ex- 
claimed: "If  it  hadn't  been  for  me!"  And  the 
transparent  innocence  of  his  indignant  eyes  was 
underlined    quaintly    by    the    arrogant    pair    of 


do  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

moustaches  which  he  proceeded  to  twist,  and  as  if 
extend,  horizontally. 

I  might  have  smiled  if  I  had  not  been  busy  with 
my  own  sensations,  which  were  not  those  of  Mr. 
Bums.  I  was  already  the  man  in  command.  My 
sensations  could  not  be  like  those  of  any  other  man 
on  board.  In  that  community  I  stood,  like  a  king 
in  his  country,  in  a  class  all  by  myself.  I  mean  an 
hereditary  king,  not  a  mere  elected  head  of  a  state. 
I  was  brought  there  to  rule  by  an  agency  as  remote 
from  the  people  and  as  inscrutable  almost  to  them 
as  the  Grace  of  God. 

And  like  a  member  of  a  dynasty,  feeling  a  semi- 
mystical  bond  with  the  dead,  I  was  profoundly 
shocked  by  my  immediate  predecessor. 

That  man  had  been  in  all  essentials  but  his  age 
just  such  another  man  as  myself.  Yet  the  end  of 
his  life  was  a  complete  act  of  treason,  the  betrayal 
of  a  tradition  which  seemed  to  me  as  imperative  as 
any  guide  on  earth  could  be.  It  appeared  that 
even  at  sea  a  man  could  become  the  \^ctun  of  evil 
spirits.  I  felt  on  my  face  the  breath  of  unknown. 
powers  that  shape  our  destinies. 

Not  to  let  the  silence  last  too  long  I  asked  Mr. 
Bums  if  he  had  written  to  his  captain's  wife.  He 
shook  his  head.    He  had  written  to  nobody. 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  ^1 

In  a  moment  he  became  sombre.  He  never 
thought  of  writing.  It  took  him  all  his  time  to 
watch  incessantly  the  loading  of  the  ship  by  a 
rascally  Chinese  stevedore.  In  this  Mr.  Bums 
gave  me  the  first  gUmpse  of  the  real  chief  mate's 
soul  which  dwelt  uneasily  in  his  body. 

He  mused,  then  hastened  on  with  gloomy 
force. 

"Yes!  The  captain  died  as  near  noon  as  pos- 
sible. I  looked  through  his  papers  in  the  afternoon. 
I  read  the  service  over  him  at  sunset  and  then  I 
stuck  the  ship's  head  north  and  brought  her  in 
here.     I — brought — her — in." 

He  struck  the  table  with  his  fist. 

*'She  would  hardly  have  come  in  by  herself,"  I 
observed.  "But  why  didn't  you  make  for  Singa- 
pore instead.'^" 

His  eyes  wavered.  "The  nearest  port,"  he 
muttered  sullenly. 

I  had  framed  the  question  in  perfect  innocence, 
but  his  answer  (the  difference  in  distance  was  in- 
significant) and  his  manner  offered  me  a  clue  to  the 
simple  truth.  He  took  the  ship  to  a  port  where  he 
expected  to  be  confirmed  in  his  temporary  com- 
mand from  lack  of  a  qualified  master  to  put  over  his 
head.     Whereas   Singapore,   he   surmised  justly. 


9^  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

would  be  full  of  qualified  men.  But  his  naive 
reasoning  forgot  to  take  into  account  the  telegraph 
cable  reposing  on  the  bottom  of  the  very  Gulf  up 
which  he  had  turned  that  ship  which  he  imagined 
himseK  to  have  saved  from  destruction.  Hence 
the  bitter  flavour  of  our  interview.  I  tasted  it 
more  and  more  distinctly — and  it  was  less  and  less 
to  my  taste. 

"Look  here,  Mr.  Burns,"  I  began  very  firmly. 
"You  may  as  well  understand  that  I  did  not  run 
after  this  command.  It  was  pushed  in  my  way. 
I've  accepted  it.  I  am  here  to  take  the  ship  home 
first  of  all,  and  you  may  be  sure  that  I  shall  see 
to  it  that  every  one  of  you  on  board  here  does  his 
duty  to  that  end.  This  is  all  I  have  to  say — for 
the  present." 

He  was  on  his  feet  by  this  time,  but  instead  of 
taking  his  dismissal  he  remained  with  trembKng, 
indignant  lips,  and  looking  at  me  hard  as  though, 
really,  after  this,  there  was  nothing  for  me  to  do  in 
common  decency  but  to  vanish  from  his  outraged 
sight.  Like  all  very  simple  emotional  states  this 
was  mo\'ing.  I  felt  sorry  for  him — almost  sympa- 
thetic, till  (seeing  that  I  did  not  vanish)  he  spoke 
in  a  tone  of  forced  restraint. 

"If  I  hadn't  a  wife  and  a  child  at  home  you  may 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  93 

be  sure,  sir,  I  would  have  asked  you  to  let  me  go  the 
very  minute  you  came  on  board." 

I  answered  him  with  a  matter-of-course  calmness 
as  though  some  remote  third  person  were  in  ques- 
tion. 

"And  I,  Mr.  Burns,  would  not  have  let  you  go. 
You  have  signed  the  ship's  articles  as  chief  officer, 
and  till  they  are  terminated  at  the  final  port  of 
discharge  I  shall  expect  you  to  attend  to  your  duty 
and  give  me  the  benefit  of  your  experience  to  the 
best  of  your  ability." 

Stony  incredulity  lingered  in  his  eyes:  but  it 
broke  down  before  my  friendly  attitude.  With  a 
slight  upward  toss  of  his  arms  (I  got  to  know  that 
gesture  well  afterward)  he  bolted  out  of  the 
cabin. 

We  might  have  saved  ourselves  that  little  pas- 
sage of  harmless  sparring.  Before  many  days  had 
elapsed  it  was  Mr.  Burns  who  was  pleading  with 
me  anxiously  not  to  leave  him  behind ;  while  I  could 
only  return  him  but  doubtful  answers.  The  whole 
thing  took  on  a  somewhat  tragic  complexion. 

And  this  horrible  problem  was  only  an  extrane- 
ous episode,  a  mere  complication  in  the  general 
problem  of  how  to  get  that  ship — which  was  mine 
with  her  appurtenances  and  her  men,  with  her  body 


94  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

and  her  spirit  now  slumbering  in  that  pestilential 
river — how  to  get  her  out  to  sea. 

Mr.  Burns,  while  still  actmg  captain,  had 
hastened  to  sign  a  charter-party  which  in  an  ideal 
world  without  guile  would  have  been  an  excellent 
document.  Directly  I  ran  my  eye  over  it  I  fore- 
saw trouble  ahead  unless  the  people  of  the  other 
part  were  quite  exceptionally  fair-minded  and  open 
to  argument. 

Mr,  Burns,  to  whom  I  imparted  my  fears,  chose 
to  take  great  umbrage  at  them.  He  looked  at  me 
with  that  usual  incredulous  stare,  and  said  bitterly : 

"I  suppose,  sir,  you  want  to  make  out  I've  acted 
like  a  fool.''" 

I  told  him,  with  my  systematic  kindhness  which 
always  seemed  to  augment  his  surprise,  that  I  did 
not  want  to  make  out  anything.  I  would  leave 
that  to  the  future. 

And,  sure  enough,  the  future  brought  in  a  lot  of 
trouble.  There  were  days  when  I  used  to  remem- 
ber Captain  Giles  with  nothing  short  of  abhor- 
rence. His  confounded  acuteness  had  let  me  in 
for  this  job;  while  his  prophecy  that  I  "would  have 
my  hands  full"  coming  true,  made  it  appear  as  if 
done  on  purpose  to  play  an  evil  joke  on  my  young 
innocence. 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  95 

Yes.  I  had  my  hands  full  of  complications  which 
were  most  valuable  as  "experience."  People  have 
a  great  opinion  of  the  advantages  of  experience. 
But  in  this  connection  experience  means  always 
something  disagreeable  as  opposed  to  the  charm 
and  innocence  of  illusions. 

I  must  say  I  was  losing  mine  rapidly.  But  on 
these  instructive  complications  I  must  not  enlarge 
more  than  to  say  that  they  could  all  be  resumed  in 
the  one  word :  Delay. 

A  mankind  which  has  invented  the  proverb, 
"Time  is  money,"  will  understand  my  vexation. 
The  word  "Delay"  entered  the  secret  chamber  of 
my  brain,  resounded  there  like  a  tolling  bell  which 
maddens  the  ear,  affected  all  my  senses,  took  on  a 
black  colouring,  a  bitter  taste,  a  deadly  meaning. 

"I  am  really  sorry  to  see  you  worried  Hke  this. 
Indeed,  I  am.     .     .     ." 

It  was  the  only  humane  speech  I  used  to  hear  at 
that  time.  And  it  came  from  a  doctor,  ap- 
propriately enough. 

A  doctor  is  humane  by  definition.  But  that  man 
was  so  in  reality.  His  speech  was  not  professional. 
I  was  not  ill.  But  other  people  were,  and  that  was 
the  reason  of  his  visiting  the  ship. 

He  was  the  doctor  of  our  Legation  and,  of  course. 


96  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

of  the  Consulate,  too.  He  looked  after  the  ship's 
health,  which  generally  was  poor,  and  trembling, 
as  it  were,  on  the  verge  of  a  break-up.  Yes.  The 
men  ailed.  And  thus  time  was  not  only  money, 
but  life  as  well. 

I  had  never  seen  such  a  steady  ship's  company. 
As  the  doctor  remarked  to  me:  "You  seem  to  have 
a  most  respectable  lot  of  seamen."  Not  only  were 
they  consistently  sober,  but  they  did  not  even 
want  to  go  ashore.  Care  was  taken  to  expose 
them  as  little  as  possible  to  the  sun.  They  were 
employed  on  light  work  under  the  awnings.  And 
the  humane  doctor  commended  me. 

"Your  arrangements  appear  to  me  to  be  very 
judicious,  my  dear  Captain." 

It  is  difficult  to  express  how  much  that  pro- 
nouncement comforted  me.  The  doctor's  round, 
full  face  framed  in  a  light-coloured  whisker  was  the 
perfection  of  a  dignified  amenity.  He  was  the  only 
human  being  in  the  world  who  seemed  to  take  the 
slightest  interest  in  me.  He  would  generally  sit  in 
the  cabin  for  half  an  hour  or  so  at  every  visit. 

I  said  to  him  one  day: 

"I  suppose  the  only  thing  now  is  to  take  care  or 
them  as  you  are  doing  till  I  can  get  the  ship  to 
sea.?" 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  97 

He  inclined  his  head,  shutting  his  eyes  under  the 
large  spectacles,  and  murmured: 

"The  sea     .     .     .     undoubtedly." 

The  first  member  of  the  crew  fairly  knocked  over 
was  the  steward — ^the  first  man  to  whom  I  had 
spoken  on  board.  He  was  taken  ashore  (with 
choleric  symptoms)  and  died  there  at  the  end  of  a 
week.  Then,  while  I  was  still  under  the  startling 
impression  of  this  first  home-thrust  of  the  climate, 
Mr.  Burns  gave  up  and  went  to  bed  in  a  raging 
fever  without  saying  a  word  to  anybody. 

I  believe  he  had  partly  fretted  himself  into  that 
illness;  the  climate  did  the  rest  with  the  swiftness 
of  an  invisible  monster  ambushed  in  the  air,  in  the 
water,  in  the  mud  of  the  river-bank.  Mr.  Burns 
was  a  predestined  victim. 

I  discovered  him  lying  on  his  back,  glaring  sul- 
lenly and  radiating  heat  on  one  like  a  small  furnace. 
He  would  hardly  answer  my  questions,  and  only 
grumbled.  Couldn't  a  man  take  an  afternoon  off 
duty  with  a  bad  headache^ — for  once.'^ 

That  evening,  as  I  sat  in  the  saloon  after  dinner, 
I  could  hear  him  muttering  continuously  in  his 
room.  Ransome,  who  was  clearing  the  table,  said 
to  me: 

**I  am  afraid,  sir,  I  won't  be  able  to  give  the  njate 


98  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

all  the  attention  he's  likely  to  need.  I  will  have 
to  be  forward  in  the  galley  a  great  part  of  my 
time." 

Ransome  was  the  cook.  The  mate  had  pointed 
him  out  to  me  the  first  day,  standing  on  the  deck, 
his  arms  crossed  on  his  broad  chest,  gazing  on  the 
river. 

Even  at  a  distance  his  well-proportioned  figure, 
something  thoroughly  sailor-like  in  his  poise,  made 
him  noticeable.  On  nearer  view  the  intelligent, 
quiet  eyes,  a  well-bred  face,  the  disciplined  in- 
dependence of  his  manner  made  up  an  attractive 
personality.  WTien,  in  addition,  Mr.  Burns  told 
me  that  he  was  the  best  seaman  in  the  ship,  I  ex- 
pressed my  surprise  that  in  his  earliest  prime  and  of 
such  appearance  he  should  sign  on  as  cook  on  board 
a  ship. 

"It's  his  heart,"  Mr.  Burns  had  said.  "There's 
something  wrong  with  it.  He  mustn't  exert  him- 
self too  much  or  he  may  drop  dead  suddenly." 

And  he  was  the  only  one  the  climate  had  not 
touched — perhaps  because,  carrying  a  deadly 
enemy  in  his  breast,  he  had  schooled  himself  into  a 
systematic  control  of  feelings  and  movements. 
When  one  was  in  the  secret  this  was  apparent  in  his 
maimer.     After  the  poor  steward  died,  and  as  he 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  99 

could  not  be  replaced  by  a  white  man  in  this 
Oriental  port,  Ransome  had  volunteered  to  do  the 
double  work. 

"I  can  do  it  all  right,  sir,  as  long  as  I  go  about  it 
quietly,"  he  had  assured  me. 

But  obviously  he  couldn't  be  expected  to  take  up 
sick-nursing  in  addition.  Moreover,  the  doctor 
peremptorily  ordered  Mr.  Burns  ashore. 

With  a  seaman  on  each  side  holding  him  up 
under  the  arms,  the  mate  went  over  the  gangway 
more  sullen  than  ever.  We  built  him  up  with  pil- 
lows in  the  gharry,  and  he  made  an  effort  to  say 
brokenly : 

"Now — you've  got — what  you  wanted — got  me 
out  of — the  ship." 

"You  were  never  more  mistaken  in  your  life, 
Mr.  Burns,"  I  said  quietly,  duly  smiUng  at  him; 
and  the  trap  drove  off  to  a  sort  of  sanatorium,  a 
pavilion  of  bricks  which  the  doctor  had  in  the 
grounds  of  his  residence. 

I  visited  Mr.  Burns  regularly.  After  the  first 
few  days,  when  he  didn't  know  anybody,  he  re- 
ceived me  as  if  I  had  come  either  to  gloat  over  an 
enemy  or  else  to  curry  favour  with  a  deeply 
wronged  person.  It  was  either  one  or  the  other, 
just  as  it  happened  according  to  his  fantastic  sick- 


100  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

room  moods.  WTiichever  it  was,  he  managed  to 
convey  it  to  me  even  during  the  period  when  he  ap- 
peared almost  too  weak  to  talk.  I  treated  him  to 
my  invariable  kindliness. 

Then  one  day,  suddenly,  a  surge  of  downright 
panic  burst  through  all  this  craziness. 

If  I  left  him  behind  in  this  deadly  place  he  would 
die.  He  felt  it,  he  was  certain  of  it.  But  I 
wouldn't  have  the  heart  to  leave  him  ashore.  He 
had  a  wife  and  child  in  Sydney. 

He  produced  his  wasted  forearms  from  under  the 
sheet  which  covered  him  and  clasped  his  fleshless 
claws.    He  would  die!    He  would  die  here.    .    .    . 

He  absolutely  managed  to  sit  up,  but  only  for  a 
moment,  and  when  he  fell  back  I  really  thought 
that  he  would  die  there  and  then.  I  called  to  the 
Bengali  dispenser,  and  hastened  away  from  the 
room. 

Next  day  he  upset  me  thoroughly  by  renewing 
his  entreaties.  I  returned  an  evasive  answer,  and 
left  him  the  picture  of  ghastly  despair.  The  day 
after  I  went  in  with  reluctance,  and  he  attacked  me 
at  once  in  a  much  stronger  voice  and  with  an 
abundance  of  argument  which  was  quite  starthng. 
He  presented  his  case  with  a  sort  of  crazy  vigour, 
*ind  asked  me  finally  how  would  I  Hke  to  have  a 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  101 

man's  death  on  my  conscience?  He  wanted  me  to 
promise  that  I  would  not  sail  without  him. 

I  said  that  I  really  must  consult  the  doctor  jBrst. 
He  cried  out  at  that.  The  doctor !  Never !  That 
would  be  a  death  sentence. 

The  effort  had  exhausted  him.  He  closed  his 
eyes,  but  went  on  rambling  in  a  low  voice.  I  had 
hated  him  from  the  start.  The  late  captain  had 
hated  him,  too.  Had  wished  him  dead.  Had 
wished  all  hands  dead.     .     .     . 

"What  do  you  want  to  stand  in  with  that  wicked 
corpse  for,  sir.^^  He'll  have  you,  too,"  he  ended, 
blinking  his  glazed  eyes  vacantly. 

"Mr.  Burns,"  I  cried,  very  much  discomposed, 
"'what  on  earth  are  you  talking  about.^*" 

He  seemed  to  come  to  himself,  though  he  was  too 
weak  to  start. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said  languidly.  "But  don't 
ask  that  doctor,  sir.  You  and  I  are  sailors.  Don't 
ask  him,  sir.  Some  day  perhaps  you  will  have  a 
wife  and  child  yourself." 

And  again  he  pleaded  for  the  promise  that  I 
would  not  leave  him  behind.  I  had  the  firmness  of 
mind  not  to  give  it  to  him.  Afterward  this  stern- 
ness seemed  criminal;  for  my  mind  was  made  up. 
That  prostrated  man,  with  hardly  strength  enough 


102  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

to  breathe  and  ravaged  by  a  passion  of  fear,  was 
irresistible.  And,  besides,  he  had  happened  to  hit 
on  the  right  words.  He  and  I  were  sailors.  That 
was  a  claim,  for  I  had  no  other  family.  As  to  the 
wife  and  child  (some  day)  argument,  it  had  no  force. 
It  sounded  merely  bizarre. 

I  could  imagine  no  claim  that  would  be  stronger 
and  more  absorbing  than  the  claim  of  that  ship,  of 
these  men  snared  in  the  river  by  silly  commercial 
complications,  as  if  in  some  poisonous  trap. 

However,  I  had  nearly  fought  my  way  out.  Out 
to  sea.  The  sea— which  was  pure,  safe,  and 
friendly.     Three  days  more. 

That  thought  sustained  and  carried  me  on  my 
way  back  to  the  ship.  In  the  saloon  the  doctor's 
voice  greeted  me,  and  his  large  form  followed  his 
voice,  issuing  out  of  the  starboard  spare  cabin 
where  the  ship's  medicine  chest  was  kept  securely 
lashed  in  the  bed-place. 

Finding  that  I  was  not  on  board  he  had  gone  in 
there,  he  said,  to  inspect  the  supply  of  drugs, 
bandages,  and  so  on.  Everything  was  completed 
and  in  order. 

I  thanked  him;  I  had  just  been  thinking  of 
asking  him  to  do  that  very  thing,  as  in  a  couple  of 
days,  as  he  knew,  we  were  going  to  sea,  where 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  lOS 

all  our  troubles  of  every  sort  would  be  over  at 
last. 

He  listened  gravely  and  made  no  answer.  But 
when  I  opened  to  him  my  mind  as  to  Mr.  Burns  he 
sat  down  by  my  side,  and,  laying  his  hand  on  my 
knee  amicably,  begged  me  to  think  what  it  was  I 
was  exposing  myself  to. 

The  man  was  just  strong  enough  to  bear  being 
moved  and  no  more.  But  he  couldn't  stand  a  re- 
turn of  the  fever.  I  had  before  me  a  passage  of 
sixty  days  perhaps,  beginning  with  intricate  navi- 
gation and  ending  probably  with  a  lot  of  bad 
weather.  Could  I  run  the  risk  of  having  to  go 
through  it  single-handed,  with  no  chief  officer  and 
with  a  second  quite  a  youth.?     .     .     . 

He  might  have  added  that  it  was  my  first  com- 
mand, too.  He  did  probably  think  of  that  fact,  for  he 
checked  himself.     It  was  very  present  to  my  mind. 

He  advised  me  earnestly  to  cable  to  Singapore 
for  a  chief  officer,  even  if  I  had  to  delay  my  sailing 
for  a  week. 

"  Never,"  I  said.  The  very  thought  gave  me  the 
shivers.  The  hands  seemed  fairly  fit,  all  of  them, 
and  this  was  the  time  to  get  them  away.  Once  at 
sea  I  was  not  afraid  of  facing  anything.  The  sea 
was  now  the  only  remedy  for  all  my  troubles. 


104  THE  SIL^DOW  LINE 

The  doctor's  glasses  were  directed  at  me  like  two 
lamps  searching  the  genuineness  of  my  resolution. 
He  opened  his  lips  as  if  to  argue  further,  but  shut 
them  again  without  saying  anything.  I  had  a 
vision  so  vivid  of  poor  Bums  in  his  exhaustion, 
helplessness,  and  anguish,  that  it  moved  me  more 
than  the  reality  I  had  come  away  from  only  an 
hour  before.  It  was  purged  from  the  drawbacks  of 
his  personahty,  and  I  could  not  resist  it. 

"Look  here,"  I  said.  "Unless  you  tell  me 
officially  that  the  man  must  not  be  moved  I'll  make 
arrangements  to  have  him  brought  on  board  to- 
morrow, and  shall  take  the  ship  out  of  the  river 
next  morning,  even  if  I  have  to  anchor  outside  the 
bar  for  a  couple  of  days  to  get  her  ready  for  sea." 

"Oh!  I'll  make  all  the  arrangements  myself," 
said  the  doctor  at  once.  "I  spoke  as  I  did  only  as  a 
friend — as  a  well-wisher,  and  that  sort  of  thing." 

He  rose  in  his  dignified  simplicity  and  gave  me  a 
warm  handshake,  rather  solemnly,  I  thought.  But 
he  was  as  good  as  his  word.  When  Mr.  Bums  ap- 
peared at  the  gangway  carried  on  a  stretcher,  the 
doctor  himself  walked  by  its  side.  The  programme 
had  been  altered  in  so  far  that  this  transportation 
had  been  left  to  the  last  moment,  on  the  very  morn- 
ing of  our  departure. 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  105 

It  was  barely  an  hour  after  sunrise.  The  doctor 
waved  his  big  arm  to  me  from  the  shore  and  walked 
back  at  once  to  his  trap,  which  had  followed  him 
empty  to  the  river-side.  Mr.  Burns,  carried  across 
the  quarter-deck,  had  the  appearance  of  being 
absolutely  lifeless.  Ransome  went  down  to  settle 
him  in  his  cabin.  I  had  to  remain  on  deck  to  look 
after  the  ship,  for  the  tug  had  got  hold  of  our  tow- 
rope  already. 

The  splash  of  our  shore-fasts  falling  in  the  water 
produced  a  complete  change  of  feeling  in  me.  It 
was  like  the  imperfect  relief  of  awakening  from  a 
nightmare.  But  when  the  ship's  head  swung  down 
the  river  away  from  that  town,  Oriental  and 
squalid,  I  missed  the  expected  elation  of  that 
striven-for  moment.  What  there  was,  un- 
doubtedly, was  a  relaxation  of  tension  which  trans- 
lated itself  into  a  sense  of  weariness  after  an  in- 
glorious fight. 

About  midday  we  anchored  a  mile  outside  the 
bar.  The  afternoon  was  busy  for  all  hands. 
Watching  the  work  from  the  poop,  where  I  re- 
mained all  the  time,  I  detected  in  it  some  of  the 
languor  of  the  six  weeks  spent  in  the  steaming  heat 
of  the  river.  The  first  breeze  would  blow  that 
away.     Now  the  calm  was  complete.     I  judged 


106  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

that  the  second  officer — a  callow  youth  with  an 
unpromising  face — was  not,  to  put  it  mildly,  of  that 
invaluable  stuff  from  which  a  commander's  right 
hand  is  made.  But  I  was  glad  to  catch  along  the 
main  deck  a  few  smiles  on  those  seamen's  faces  at 
which  I  had  hardly  had  time  to  have  a  good  look  as 
yet.  Having  thrown  off  the  mortal  coil  of  shore 
affairs,  I  felt  myself  familiar  with  them  and  yet  a 
little  strange,  like  a  long-lost  wanderer  among  his 
kin. 

Ransome  flitted  continually  to  and  fro  between 
the  galley  and  the  cabin.  It  was  a  pleasure  to 
look  at  him.  The  man  positively  had  grace.  He 
alone  of  all  the  crew  had  not  had  a  day's  illness  in 
port.  But  with  the  knowledge  of  that  uneasy 
heart  within  his  breast  I  could  detect  the  restraint 
he  put  on  the  natural  sailor-like  agility  of  his 
movements.  It  was  as  though  he  had  something 
very  fragile  or  very  explosive  to  carry  about  his 
person  and  was  all  the  time  aware  of  it. 

I  had  occasion  to  address  him  once  or  twice.  He 
answered  me  in  his  pleasant,  quiet  voice  and  with  a 
faint,  slightly  wistful  smile.  Mr.  Burns  appeared 
to  be  resting.     He  seemed  fairly  comfortable. 

After  sunset  I  came  out  on  deck  again  to  meet 
only  a  still  void.     The  thin,  featureless  crust  of  the 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  107 

coast  could  not  be  distinguished.  The  darkness 
had  risen  around  the  ship  like  a  mysterious  emana- 
tion from  the  dumb  and  lonely  waters.  I  leaned 
on  the  rail  and  turned  my  ear  to  the  shadows  of  the 
night.  Not  a  sound.  My  command  might  have 
been  a  planet  flying  vertiginously  on  its  appointed 
path  in  a  space  of  infinite  silence.  I  clung  to  the 
rail  as  if  my  sense  of  balance  were  leaving  me  for 
good.     How  absurd.     I  failed  nervously. 

"On  deck  there!'* 

The  immediate  answer,  "Yes,  sir,"  broke  the 
spell.  The  anchor- watch  man  ran  up  the  poop 
ladder  smartly.  I  told  him  to  report  at  once  the 
slightest  sign  of  a  breeze  coming. 

Going  below  I  looked  in  on  Mr.  Burns.  In  fact, 
I  could  not  avoid  seeing  him,  for  his  door  stood 
open.  The  man  was  so  wasted  that,  in  this  white 
cabin,  under  a  white  sheet,  and  with  his  diminished 
head  sunk  in  the  white  pillow,  his  red  moustaches 
captured  their  eyes  exclusively,  like  something  arti- 
ficial— a  pair  of  moustaches  from  a  shop  exhibited 
there  in  the  harsh  light  of  the  bulkhead-lamp 
without  a  shade. 

While  I  stared  with  a  sort  of  wonder  he  asserted 
himself  by  opening  his  eyes  and  even  moving  them 
in  my  direction.     A  minute  stir. 


108  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

"Dead  calm,  Mr.  Bums,"  I  said  resignedly. 

In  an  unexpectedly  distinct  voice  Mr.  Bums  be- 
gan a  rambling  speech.  Its  tone  was  very  strange, 
not  as  if  affected  by  his  illness,  but  as  if  of  a  differ- 
ent nature.  It  sounded  unearthly.  As  to  the 
matter,  I  seemed  to  make  out  that  it  was  the  fault 
of  the  "old  man" — the  late  captain — ambushed 
down  there  under  the  sea  with  some  evil  intention. 
It  was  a  weird  story 

I  listened  to  the  end;  then  stepping  into  the 
cabin  I  laid  my  hand  on  the  mate's  forehead.  It 
was  cool.  He  was  light-headed  only  from  extreme 
weakness.  Suddenly  he  seemed  to  become  aware 
of  me,  and  in  his  own  voice — of  course,  very  feeble 
— he  asked  regretfully: 

"Is  there  no  chance  at  all  to  get  under  way,  sir.^^ " 

"What's  the  good  of  letting  go  our  hold  of  the 
ground  only  to  drift,  iNIr.  Burns?  "  I  answered. 

He  sighed  and  I  left  him  to  his  immobility.  His 
hold  on  life  was  as  slender  as  his  hold  on  sanity.  I 
was  oppressed  by  my  lonely  responsibilities.  I 
went  into  my  cabin  to  seek  relief  in  a  few  hours' 
sleep,  but  almost  before  I  closed  my  eyes  the  man 
on  deck  came  down  reporting  a  light  breeze. 
Enough  to  get  under  way  with,  he  said. 

And  it  was  no  more  than  just  enough.    I  ordered 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  109 

the  windlass  manned,  the  sails  loosed,  and  the  top- 
sails set.  But  by  the  time  I  had  cast  the  ship  I 
could  hardly  feel  any  breath  of  wind.  Neverthe- 
less, I  trimmed  the  yards  and  put  everything  on 
her.     I  was  not  going  to  give  up  the  attempt. 


PART  T^ 


IV 

With  her  anchor  at  the  bow  and  clothed  in  canvas 
to  her  very  trucks,  my  command  seemed  to  stand 
as  motionless  as  a  model  ship  set  on  the  gleams  and 
shadows  of  polished  marble.  It  was  impossible 
to  distinguish  land  from  water  in  the  enigmatical 
tranquillity  of  the  immense  forces  of  the  world. 
A  sudden  impatience  possessed  me. 

"Won't  she  answer  the  helm  at  all?"  I  said 
irritably  to  the  man  whose  strong  brown  hands 
grasping  the  spokes  of  the  wheel  stood  out  lighted 
on  the  darkness;  like  a  symbol  of  mankind's  claim 
CO  the  direction  of  its  own  fate. 

He  answered  me. 

"Yes,  sir.     She's  coming-to  slowly." 

"Let  her  head  come  up  to  south." 

"Aye,  aye,  sir." 

I  paced  the  poop.  There  was  not  a  sound  but 
that  of  my  footsteps,  till  the  man  spoke  again. 

"She  is  at  south  now,  sir." 

I  felt  a  slight  tightness  of  the  chest  before  I  gave 
out  the  first  course  of  my  first  command  to  the 

113 


114  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

silent  night,  heavy  with  dew  and  sparkUng  with 
stars.  There  was  a  finahty  in  the  act  commit- 
ting me  to  the  endless  vigilance  of  my  lonely  task. 

"Steady  her  head  at  that,"  I  said  at  last.  "The 
>Durse  is  south." 

"South,  sir,"  echoed  the  man. 

I  sent  below  the  second  mate  and  his  watch  and 
remained  in  charge,  walking  the  deck  through  the 
chiU,  somnolent  hours  that  precede  the  dawn. 

Slight  puffs  came  and  went,  and  whenever  they 
were  strong  enough  to  wake  up  the  black  water  the 
murmur  alongside  ran  through  my  very  heart  in  a 
delicate  crescendo  of  dehght  and  died  away  swiftly. 
I  was  bitterly  tired.  The  very  stars  seemed  weary 
of  waiting  for  daybreak.  It  came  at  last  with  a 
mother-of-pearl  sheen  at  the  zenith,  such  as  I  had 
never  seen  before  in  the  tropics,  unglowing,  almost 
gray,  \Nith  a  strange  reminder  of  high  latitudes. 

The  voice  of  the  look-out  man  hailed  from  for- 
ward: 

"Land  on  the  port  bow,  sir." 

"All  right." 

Leaning  on  the  rail  I  never  even  raised  my  eyes. 
The  motion  of  the  ship  was  imperceptible.  Pres- 
ently Ransome  brought  me  the  cup  of  morning 
coffee.     After  I  had  drunk  it  I  looked  ahead,  and  in 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  114 

the  still  streak  of  very  bright  pale  orange  light  I 
saw  the  land  profiled  flatly  as  if  cut  out  of  black 
paper  and  seeming  to  float  on  the  water  as  light  as 
cork.  But  the  rising  sun  turned  it  into  mere  dark 
vapour,  a  doubtful,  massive  shadow  trembling  in 
the  hot  glare. 

The  watch  finished  washing  decks.  I  went  be- 
low and  stopped  at  Mr.  Burns'  door  (he  could  not 
bear  to  have  it  shut),  but  hesitated  to  speak  to  him 
till  he  moved  his  eyes.     I  gave  him  the  news. 

"  Sighted  Cape  Liant  at  daylight.  About  fifteen 
miles." 

He  moved  his  lips  then,  but  I  heard  no  sound 
till  I  put  my  ear  down,  and  caught  the  peevish 
comment:  " This  is  crawling.    .    .    .    No  luck." 

"Better  luck  than  standing  still,  anyhow,"  I 
pointed  out  resignedly,  and  left  him  to  whatever 
thoughts  or  fancies  haunted  his  awful  immobility. 

Later  that  morning,  when  relieved  by  my  second 
ofiicer,  I  threw  myself  on  my  couch  and  for  some 
three  hours  or  so  I  really  found  oblivion.  It  was  so 
perfect  that  on  waking  up  I  wondered  where  I  was. 
Then  came  the  immense  relief  of  the  thought:  on 
board  my  ship!    At  sea!    At  sea! 

Through  the  port-holes  I  beheld  an  unruflBed, 
sun-smitten  horizon.      The  horizon  of  a  windless 


116  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

day.  But  its  spaciousness  alone  was  enough  to 
give  me  a  sense  of  a  fortunate  escape,  a  momentary 
exultation  of  freedom. 

I  stepped  out  into  the  saloon  with  my  heart 
lighter  than  it  had  been  for  days,  Ransome  was  at 
the  sideboard  preparing  to  lay  the  table  for  the  first 
sea  dinner  of  the  passage.  He  turned  his  head,  and 
something  in  his  eyes  checked  my  modest  elation. 

Instinctively  I  asked :  "  What  is  it  now?  "  not  ex- 
pecting in  the  least  the  answer  I  got.  It  was  given 
with  that  sort  of  contained  serenity  which  was 
characteristic  of  the  man. 

*'I  am  afraid  we  haven't  left  all  sickness  behind 
us,  sir." 

"  We  haven't !     WTiat's  the  matter.?  " 

He  told  me  then  that  two  of  our  men  had  been 
taken  bad  with  fever  in  the  night.  One  of  them 
was  burning  and  the  other  was  shivering,  but  he 
thought  that  it  was  pretty  much  the  same  thing. 
I  thought  so,  too.  I  felt  shocked  by  the  news. 
"One  burning,  the  other  shivering,  you  say.'*  No. 
We  haven't  left  the  sickness  behind.  Do  they  look 
very  ill?" 

"IVIiddling  bad,  sir."  Ransome's  eyes  gazed 
steadily  into  mine.  We  exchanged  smiles.  Ran- 
some's a  little  wistful,  as  usual,  mine  no  doubt  grim 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  117 

enough,  to  correspond  with  my  secret  exaspera- 
tion. 

I  asked: 

"Was  there  any  wind  at  all  this  morning?" 

"  Can  hardly  say  that,  sir.  We've  moved  all  the 
time  though.  The  land  ahead  seems  a  little  nearer." 

That  was  it.  A  little  nearer.  Whereas  if  we 
had  only  had  a  little  more  wind,  only  a  very  little 
more,  we  might,  we  should,  have  been  abreast  of 
Liant  by  this  time  and  increasing  our  distance  from 
that  contaminated  shore.  And  it  was  not  only  the 
distance.  It  seemed  to  me  that  a  stronger  breeze 
would  have  blown  away  the  contamination  which 
clung  to  the  ship.  It  obviously  did  cling  to  the 
ship.  Two  men.  One  burning,  one  shivering.  I 
felt  a  distinct  reluctance  to  go  and  look  at  them. 
What  was  the  good.'*  Poison  is  poison.  Tropical 
fever  is  tropical  fever.  But  that  it  should  have 
stretched  its  claw  after  us  over  the  sea  seemed  to 
me  an  extraordinary  and  unfair  license.  I  could 
hardly  believe  that  it  could  be  anything  worse  than 
the  last  desperate  pluck  of  the  evil  from  which  we 
were  escaping  into  the  clean  breath  of  the  sea.  If 
only  that  breath  had  been  a  little  stronger.  How- 
ever, there  was  the  quinine  against  the  fever.  I 
went  into  the  spare  cabin  where  the  medicine  chest 


118  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

was  kept  to  prepare  two  doses.  I  opened  it  full  of 
faith  as  a  man  opens  a  miraculous  shrine.  The 
upper  part  was  inhabited  by  a  collection  of  bottles, 
all  square-shouldered  and  as  like  each  other  as 
peas.  Under  that  orderly  array  there  were  two 
drawers,  stuffed  as  full  of  things  as  one  could  im- 
agine— paper  packages,  bandages,  cardboard  boxes 
officially  labelled.  The  lower  of  the  two,  in  one 
of  its  compartments,  contained  our  provision  of 
quinine. 

There  were  five  bottles,  all  round  and  all  of  a 
size.  One  was  about  a  third  full.  The  other  four 
remained  still  wrapped  up  in  paper  and  sealed. 
But  I  did  not  expect  to  see  an  envelope  lying  on  top 
of  them.  A  square  envelope,  belonging,  in  fact,  to 
the  ship's  stationery. 

It  lay  so  that  I  could  see  it  was  not  closed  down, 
and  on  picking  it  up  and  turning  it  over  I  perceived 
that  it  was  addressed  te  myself.  It  contained  a 
half-sheet  of  notepaper,  which  I  unfolded  with  a 
queer  sense  of  dealing  with  the  uncanny,  but  with- 
out any  excitement  as  people  meet  and  do  ex- 
traordinary things  in  a  dream. 

"My  dear  Captain,"  it  began,  but  I  ran  to  the 
signature.  The  writer  was  the  doctor.  The  date 
was  that  of  the  day  on  which,  returning  from  my 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  110 

visit  to  Mr.  Burns  in  the  hospital,  I  had  found  the 
excellent  doctor  waiting  for  me  in  the  cabin;  and 
when  he  told  me  that  he  had  been  putting  in 
time  inspecting  the  medicine  chest  for  me.  How 
bizarre!  While  expecting  me  to  come  in  at  any 
moment  he  had  been  amusing  himself  by  writing 
me  a  letter,  and  then  as  I  came  in  had  hastened  to 
stuflF  it  into  the  medicine-chest  drawer.  A  rather 
incredible  proceeding.  I  turned  to  the  text  in 
wonder. 

In  a  large,  hurried,  but  legible  hand  the  good, 
sympathetic  man  for  some  reason,  either  of  kind- 
ness or  more  likely  impelled  by  the  irresistible  de- 
sire to  express  his  opinion,  with  which  he  didn't 
want  to  damp  my  hopes  before,  was  warning  me 
not  to  put  my  trust  in  the  beneiScial  effects  of  a 
change  from  land  to  sea.  "I  didn't  want  to  add  to 
your  worries  by  discouraging  your  hopes,"  he 
wrote.  "  I  am  afraid  that,  medically  speaking,  the 
end  of  your  troubles  is  not  yet."  In  short,  he  ex- 
pected me  to  have  to  fight  a  probable  return  of 
tropical  illness.  Fortunately  I  had  a  good  pro- 
vision of  quinine,  I  should  put  my  trust  in  that, 
and  administer  jt  steadily,  when  the  ship's  health 
would  certainly  improve. 

I  crumpled  up  the  letter  and  rammed  it  into  my 


1«0  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

pocket.  Ransome  carried  off  two  big  doses  to  the 
men  forward.  As  to  myself,  I  did  not  go  on  deck  as 
yet.  I  went  instead  to  the  door  of  Mr.  Burns' 
room,  and  gave  him  that  news,  too. 

It  was  impossible  to  say  the  effect  it  had  on  him. 
At  first  I  thought  that  he  was  speechless.  His  head 
lay  sunk  in  the  pillow.  He  moved  his  hps  enough, 
however,  to  assure  me  that  he  was  getting  much 
stronger;  a  statement  shockingly  untrue  on  the 
face  of  it. 

That  afternoon  I  took  my  watch  as  a  matter  of 
course.  A  great  over-heated  stillness  enveloped 
the  ship  and  seemed  to  hold  her  motionless  in  a 
flaming  ambience  composed  in  two  shades  of  blue. 
Faint,  hot  puffs  eddied  nervelessly  from  her  sails. 
And  yet  she  moved.  She  must  have.  For,  as  the 
sun  was  setting,  we  had  drawn  abreast  of  Cape 
Liant  and  dropped  it  behind  us:  an  ominous  re- 
treating shadow  in  the  last  gleams  of  twilight. 

In  the  evening,  under  the  crude  glare  of  his  lamp, 
Mr.  Burns  seemed  to  have  come  more  to  the  surface 
of  his  bedding.  It  was  as  if  a  depressing  hand  had 
been  lifted  off  him.  He  answered  my  few  words 
by  a  comparatively  long,  connected  speech.  He 
asserted  himself  strongly.  If  he  escaped  being 
smothered  by  this  stagnant  heat,  he  said,  he  was 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  121 

confident  that  in  a  very  few  days  he  would  be  able 
to  come  up  on  deck  and  help  me. 

While  he  was  speaking  I  trembled  lest  this  effort 
of  energy  should  leave  him  lifeless  before  my  eyes. 
But  I  cannot  deny  that  there  was  something  com- 
forting in  his  willingness.  I  made  a  suitable 
reply,  but  pointed  out  to  him  that  the  only  thing 
that  could  really  help  us  was  wind    -a  fair  wind. 

He  rolled  his  head  impatiently  on  the  pillow. 
And  it  was  not  comforting  in  the  least  to  hear  him 
begin  to  mutter  crazily  about  the  late  captain,  that 
old  man  buried  in  latitude  8°  20',  right  in  our  way 
— ambushed  at  the  entrance  of  the  Gulf. 

"Are  you  still  tliinking  of  your  late  captain,  Mr. 
Burns  ?"  1  said .  "I  imagine  the  dead  feel  no  animos- 
ity against  the  living.    They  care  nothing  for  them . ' ' 

"You  don't  know  that  one,"  he  breathed  out 
feebly. 

"No.  I  didn't  know  him,  and  he  didn't  know 
me.  And  so  he  can't  have  any  grievance  against 
me,  anyway." 

"Yes.  But  there's  all  the  rest  of  us  on  board,"  he 
insisted. 

I  felt  the  inexpugnable  strength  of  common  sense 
being  insidiously  menaced  by  this  gruesome,  by 
this  insane,  delusion.     And  I  said: 


1^2  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

"You  mustn't  talk  so  much.  You  will  tire  your- 
self." 

"And  there  is  the  ship  herself,"  he  persisted  in  a 
whisper. 

"Now,  not  a  word  more,"  I  said,  stepping  in  and 
laying  my  hand  on  his  cool  forehead.  It  proved  to 
me  that  this  atrocious  absurdity  was  rooted  in  the 
man  himself  and  not  in  the  disease,  which,  ap- 
parently, had  emptied  him  of  every  power,  mental 
and  physical,  except  that  one  fixed  idea. 

I  avoided  gi^dng  Mr.  Burns  any  opening  for  con- 
versation for  the  next  few  days.  I  merely  used  to 
throw  him  a  hasty,  cheery  word  when  passing  his 
door.  I  believe  that  if  he  had  had  the  strength  he 
would  have  called  out'  after  me  more  than  once. 
But  he  hadn't  the  strength.  Ransome,  however, 
observed  to  me  one  afternoon  that  the  mate 
"seemed  to  be  picking  up  wonderfully." 

"Did  he  talk  any  nonsense  to  you  of  late.^"  I 
asked  casually. 

"No,  sir."  Ransome  was  startled  by  the  direct 
question;  but,  after  a  pause,  he  added  equably: 
"  He  told  me  this  morning,  sir,  that  he  was  sorry  he 
had  to  bury  our  late,  captain  right  in  the  ship's, 
way,  as  one  may  say,  out  of  the  Gulf." 

"Isn't  this  nonsense  enough  for  you?"  I  asked. 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  12S 

looking  confidently  at  the  intelligent,  quiet  face  on 
which  the  secret  uneasiness  in  the  man's  breast 
had  thrown  a  transparent  veil  of  care. 

Ransome  didn't  know.  He  had  not  given  a 
thought  to  the  matter.  And  with  a  faint  smile  he 
flitted  away  from  me  on  his  never-ending  duties, 
with  his  usual  guarded  activity. 

Two  more  days  passed.  We  had  advanced  a 
little  way — a  very  little  way — into  the  larger  space 
of  the  Gulf  of  Siam.  Seizing  eagerly  upon  the 
elation  of  the  first  command  thrown  into  my  lap, 
by  the  agency  of  Captain  Giles,  I  had  yet  an  uneasy 
feeling  that  such  luck  as  this  has  got  perhaps  to  be 
paid  for  in  some  way.  I  had  held,  professionally,  a 
review  of  my  chances.  I  was  competent  enough 
for  that.  At  least,  I  thought  so.  I  had  a  general 
sense  of  my  preparedness  which  only  a  man  pur- 
suing a  calling  he  loves  can  know.  That  feeling 
seemed  to  me  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world. 
As  natural  as  breathing.  I  imagined  I  could  not 
have  lived  without  it. 

I  don't  know  what  I  expected.  Perhaps  nothing 
else  than  that  special  intensity  of  existence  which  is 
the  quintessence  of  youthful  aspirations.  What- 
ever I  expected  I  did  not  expect  to  be  beset  by 
hurricanes.     I  knew  better  than  that.     In  the  Gulf 


124  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

of  Siam  there  are  no  hurricanes.  But  neither  did  I 
expect  to  find  myself  bound  hand  and  foot  to  the 
hopeless  extent  which  was  revealed  to  me  as  the 
days  went  on. 

Not  that  the  evil  spell  held  us  always  motionless. 
Mysterious  currents  drifted  us  here  and  there,  with 
a  stealthy  power  made  manifest  only  by  the  chang- 
ing vistas  of  the  islands  fringing  the  east  shore  of 
the  Gulf.  And  there  were  winds,  too,  fitful  and 
deceitful.  They  raised  hopes  only  to  dash  them 
into  the  bitterest  disappointment,  promises  of 
advance  ending  in  lost  ground,  expiring  in  sighs, 
dying  into  dumb  stillness  in  which  the  currents 
had  it  all  their  own  way — their  own  inimical 
way. 

The  island  of  Koh-ring,  a  great,  black,  up- 
heaved ridge  amongst  a  lot  of  tiny  islets,  lying 
upon  the  glassy  water  like  a  triton  amongst  min- 
nows, seemed  to  be  the  centre  of  the  fatal  circle.  It 
seemed  impossible  to  get  away  from  it.  Day  after 
day  it  remained  in  sight.  More  than  once,  in  a 
favourable  breeze,  I  would  take  its  bearings  in  the 
fast-ebbing  twilight,  thinking  that  it  was  for  the 
last  time.  Vain  hope.  A  night  of  fitful  airs  would 
undo  the  gains  of  temporary  favour,  and  the  rising 
sun  would  throw  out  the  black  relief  of  Koh-ring, 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  125 

looking  more  barren,  inhospitable,  and  grim  than 
ever. 

"It's  like  being  bewitched,  upon  my  word,"  I 
said  once  to  Mr.  Burns,  from  my  usual  position  in 
the  doorway. 

He  was  sitting  up  in  his  bed-place.  He  was 
progressing  toward  the  world  of  living  men;  if  he 
could  hardly  have  been  said  to  have  rejoined  it  yet. 
He  nodded  to  me  his  frail  and  bony  head  in  a 
wisely  mysterious  assent. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  what  you  mean,"  I  said. 
"But  you  cannot  expect  me  to  believe  that  a  dead 
man  has  the  power  to  put  out  of  joint  the  meteor- 
ology of  this  part  of  the  world.  Though  indeed 
it  seems  to  have  gone  utterly  wrong.  The  land  and 
sea  breezes  have  got  broken  up  into  small  pieces. 
We  cannot  depend  upon  them  for  five  minutes  to- 
gether." 

"It  won't  be  very  long  now  before  I  can  come  up 
on  deck,"  muttered  Mr.  Burns,  "and  then  we  shall 
see. 

Whether  he  meant  this  for  a  promise  to  grapple 
with  supernatural  evil  I  couldn't  tell.  At  any  rate, 
it  wasn't  the  kind  of  assistance  I  needed.  On  the 
other  hand,  I  had  been  living  on  deck  practically 
jiight  and  day  so  ^3  to  take  advantage  of  every 


126  TIIE  SHADOW  LINE 

chance  to  get  my  ship  a  little  more  to  the  south* 
ward.  The  mate,  I  could  see,  was  extremely  weak 
yet,  and  not  quite  rid  of  his  delusion,  which  to  me 
appeared  but  a  symptom  of  his  disease.  At  all 
events,  the  hopefulness  of  an  invalid  was  not  to  be 
discouraged.     I  said: 

"  You  will  be  most  welcome  there,  I  am  sure,  Mr. 
Burns.  If  you  go  on  improving  at  this  rate  you'll 
be  presently  one  of  the  healthiest  men  in  the  ship." 

This  pleased  him,  but  his  extreme  emaciation 
converted  his  self-satisfied  smile  into  a  ghastly 
exhibition  of  long  teeth  under  the  red  moustache. 

"Aren't  the  fellows  improving,  sir.''"  he  asked 
soberly,  with  an  extremely  sensible  expression  of 
anxiety  on  his  face. 

I  answered  him  only  with  a  vague  gesture  and 
went  away  from  the  door.  The  fact  was  that 
disease  played  with  us  capriciously  very  much  as 
the  winds  did.  It  would  go  from  one  man  to  an- 
other with  a  lighter  or  heavier  touch,  which  always 
left  its  mark  behind,  staggering  some,  knocking 
others  over  for  a  time,  leaving  this  one,  returning 
to  another,  so  that  all  of  them  had  now  an  invalid- 
ish  aspect  and  a  hunted,  apprehensive  look  in  their 
eyes;  while  Ransome  and  I,  the  only  two  com- 
pletely untouched,  went  amongst  them  assiduously 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  127 

distributing  quinine.  It  was  a  double  fight.  The 
adverse  weather  held  us  in  front  and  the  disease 
pressed  on  our  rear.  I  must  say  that  the  men  were 
very  good.  The  constant  toil  of  trimming  yards 
they  faced  willingly.  But  all  spring  was  out  of 
their  limbs,  and  as  I  looked  at  them  from  the  poop 
I  could  not  keep  from  my  mind  the  dreadful  im- 
pression that  they  were  moving  in  poisoned  air. 

Down  below,  in  his  cabin,  Mr.  Burns  had  ad- 
vanced so  far  as  not  only  to  be  able  to  sit  up,  but 
even  to  draw  up  his  legs.  Clasping  them  with 
bony  arms,  like  an  animated  skeleton,  he  emitted 
deep,  impatient  sighs. 

"The  great  thing  to  do,  sir,"  he  would  tell  me  on 
every  occasion,  when  I  gave  him  the  chance,  "the 
great  thing  is  to  get  the  ship  past  8°  20'  of  latitude. 
Once  she's  past  that  we're  all  right." 

At  first  I  used  only  to  smile  at  him,  though,  God 
knows,  I  had  not  much  heart  left  for  smiles.  But 
at  last  I  lost  my  patience. 

"Oh,  yes.  The  latitude  8°  20'.  That's  where 
you  buried  your  late  captain,  isn't  it.'^ "  Then  with 
severity:  "Don't  you  think,  Mr.  Burns,  it's  about 
time  you  dropped  all  that  nonsense?" 

He  rolled  at  me  his  deep-sunken  eyes  in  a  glance 
of  invincible  obstinacy.     But  for  the  rest  he  only 


128  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

muttered,  just  loud  enough  for  me  to  hear,  some- 
thmg  about  "Not  surprised  .  .  .  find  .  .  , 
play  us  some  beastly  trick  yet.     .     .     ." 

Such  passages  as  this  were  not  exactly  whole- 
some for  my  resolution.  The  stress  of  adversity 
was  beginning  to  tell  on  me.  At  the  same  time,  I 
felt  a  contempt  for  that  obscure  w^eakness  of  my 
tsoul.  I  said  to  myself  disdainfully  that  it  should 
take  much  more  than  that  to  affect  in  the  smallest 
degree  my  fortitude. 

I  didn't  know  then  how  soon  and  from  what  un- 
expected direction  it  would  be  attacked. 

It  was  the  very  next  day.  The  sun  had  risen 
clear  of  the  southern  shoulder  of  Koh-ring,  which 
still  hung,  like  an  evil  attendant,  on  our  port 
quarter.  It  was  intensely  hateful  to  my  sight. 
During  the  night  we  had  been  heading  all  round  the 
compass,  trimming  the  yards  again  and  again,  to 
what  I  fear  must  have  been  for  the  most  part  im- 
aginary puffs  of  air.  Then  just  about  sunrise  we 
got  for  an  hour  an  inexplicable,  steady  breeze,  right 
in  our  teeth.  There  was  no  sense  in  it.  It  fitted 
neither  with  the  season  of  the  year  nor  with  the 
secular  experience  of  seamen  as  recorded  in  books, 
nor  with  the  aspect  of  the  sky.  Only  purposeful 
malevolence   could   account   for   it.     It   sent    us 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  129 

travelling  at  a  great  pace  away  from  our  proper 
course;  and  if  we  had  been  out  on  pleasure  sailing 
bent  it  would  have  been  a  delightful  breeze,  with 
the  awakened  sparkle  of  the  sea,  with  the  sense  of 
motion  and  a  feeling  of  unwonted  freshness.  Then, 
all  at  once,  as  if  disdaining  to  carry  farther  the 
sorry  jest,  it  dropped  and  died  out  completely  in 
less  than  five  minutes.  The  ship's  head  swung 
where  it  listed ;  the  stilled  sea  took  on  the  polish  of  a 
steel  plate  in  the  calm. 

I  went  below,  not  because  I  meant  to  take  some 
rest,  but  simply  because  I  couldn't  bear  to  look  at 
it  just  then.  The  indefatigable  Ransome  was  busy 
in  the  saloon.  It  had  become  a  regular  practice 
with  him  to  give  me  an  informal  health  report  in 
the  morning.  He  turned  away  from  the  sideboard 
with  his  usual  pleasant,  quiet  gaze.  No  shadow 
rested  on  his  intelligent  forehead. 

"There  are  a  good  many  of  them  middling  bad 
this  morning,  sir,"  he  said  in  a  calm  tone. 

"  What?    All  knocked  out.?  " 

"Only  two  actually  in  their  bunks,  sir,  but " 

"It's  the  last  night  that  has  done  for  them.  We 
have  had  to  pull  and  haul  all  the  blessed  time." 

"I  heard,  sir.  I  had  a  mind  to  come  out  and 
help  only,  you  know.     .     .     ." 


130  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

"Certainly  not.  You  mustn't.  .  .  .  The 
fellows  lie  at  night  about  the  decks,  too.  It  isn't 
good  for  them." 

Ransome  assented.  But  men  couldn't  be  looked 
after  like  children.  Moreover,  one  could  hardly 
blame  them  for  trying  for  such  coolness  and  such 
air  as  there  was  to  be  found  on  deck.  He  himself, 
of  course,  knew  better. 

He  was,  indeed,  a  reasonable  man.  Yet  it 
would  have  been  hard  to  say  that  the  others  were 
not.  The  last  few  days  had  been  for  us  like  the 
ordeal  of  the  fiery  furnace.  One  really  couldn't 
quarrel  with  their  common,  imprudent  humanity 
making  the  best  of  the  moments  of  relief,  when  the 
night  brought  in  the  illusion  of  coolness  and  the 
starlight  twinkled  through  the  heavy,  dew-laden 
air.  Moreover,  most  of  them  were  so  weakened 
that  hardly  anything  could  be  done  without  every- 
body that  could  totter  mustering  on  the  braces. 
No,  it  was  no  use  remonstrating  with  them.  But  I 
fully  beheved  that  quinine  was  of  very  great  use 
indeed. 

I  believed  in  it.  I  pinned  my  faith  to  it.  It 
would  save  the  men,  the  ship,  break  the  spell  by 
its  medicinal  virtue,  make  time  of  no  account, 
the  weather  but  a  passing  worry  and,  like  a  magic 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  131 

powder  working  against  mysterious  malefices,  se- 
cure the  first  passage  of  my  first  command  against 
the  ev^il  powers  of  calms  and  pestilence.  I  looked 
upon  it  as  more  precious  than  gold,  and  unlike  gold, 
of  which  there  ever  hardly  seems  to  be  enough  any- 
where, the  ship  had  a  sufficient  store  of  it.  I  went 
in  to  get  it  with  the  purpose  of  weighing  out  doses. 
I  stretched  my  hand  with  the  feeling  of  a  man 
reaching  for  an  unfailing  panacea,  took  up  a  fresh 
bottle  and  imrolled  the  wrapper,  noticing  as  I  did 
so  that  the  ends,  both  top  and  bottom,  had  come 
imsealed.     .     .     . 

But  why  record  all  the  swift  steps  of  the  appal- 
ling discovery?  You  have  guessed  the  truth  al- 
ready. There  was  the  wrapper,  the  bottle,  and  the 
white  powder  inside,  some  sort  of  powder !  But  it 
wasn't  quinine.  One  look  at  it  was  quite  enough. 
I  remember  that  at  the  very  moment  of  picking  up 
the  bottle,  before  I  even  dealt  with  the  wrapper,  the 
weight  of  the  object  I  had  in  my  hand  gave  me  an 
instant  premonition.  Quinine  is  as  light  as  feath- 
ers; and  my  nerves  must  have  been  exasperated 
into  an  extraordinary  sensibility.  I  let  the  bottle 
smash  itself  on  the  floor.  The  stuff,  whatever  it 
was,  felt  gritty  under  the  sole  of  my  shoe.  I 
snatched  up  the  next  bottle  and  then  the  next. 


132  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

The  weight  alone  told  the  tale.  One  after  another 
they  fell,  breaking  at  my  feet,  not  because  I  threw 
them  down  in  my  dismay,  but  slipping  through  my 
fingers  as  if  this  disclosure  were  too  much  for  my 
.  strength. 

It  is  a  fact  that  the  very  greatness  of  a  mental 
shock  helps  one  to  bear  up  against  it  by  producing 
a  sort  of  temporary  insensibility.  I  came  out  of 
the  state-room  stunned,  as  if  something  heavy  had 
dropped  on  my  head.  From  the  other  side  of  the 
saloon,  across  the  table,  Ransome,  with  a  duster  in 
his  hand,  stared  open-mouthed.  I  don't  think  that 
I  looked  wild.  It  is  quite  possible  that  I  appeared 
to  be  in  a  hurry  because  I  was  instinctively  hasten- 
ing up  on  deck.  An  example  this  of  training  be- 
come instinct.  The  difficulties,  the  dangers,  the 
problems  of  a  ship  at  sea  must  be  met  on  deck. 

To  this  fact,  as  it  were  of  nature,  I  responded 
instinctively;  which  may  be  taken  as  a  proof  that 
for  a  moment  I  must  have  been  robbed  of  my 
reason. 

I  was  certainly  off  my  balance,  a  prey  to  im- 
pulse, for  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  I  turned  and 
flung  myself  at  the  doorway  of  Mr.  Burns'  cabin. 
The  wildness  of  his  aspect  checked  my  mental  dis- 
order.    He  was  sitting  up  in  his  bunk,  his  body 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  13S 

looking  immensely  long,  h'S  head  drooping  a  little 
sideways,  with  affected  complacency.  He  flour- 
ished, in  his  trembling  hand,  on  the  end  of  a  fore- 
arm no  thicker  than  a  stout  walking-stick,  a  shining 
pair  of  scissors  which  he  tried  before  my  very  eyes 
to  jab  at  his  throat. 

I  was  to  a  certain  extent  horrified;  but  it  was 
rather  a  secondary  sort  of  effect,  not  really  strong 
enough  to  make  m^e  yell  at  him  in  some  such  man- 
ner as:   "Stop!"     .     .     .     "Heavens!".      .      . 
"What  are  you  doing.?" 

In  reality  he  was  simply  overtaxing  his  returning 
strength  in  a  shaky  attempt  to  clip  off  the  thick 
growth  of  his  red  beard;  A  large  towel  was  spread 
over  his  lap,  and  a  shower  of  stiff  hairs,  like  bits  of 
copper  wire,  was  descending  on  it  at  every  snip  of 
the  scissors. 

He  turned  to  me  his  face  grotesque  beyond  the 
fantasies  of  mad  dreams,  one  cheek  all  bushy  as  if 
with  a  swollen  flame,  the  other  denuded  and 
sunken,  with  the  untouched  long  moustache  on 
that  side  asserting  itself,  lonely  and  fierce.  And 
while  he  stared  thunderstruck,  with  the  gaping 
scissors  on  his  fingers,  I  shouted  my  discovery  at 
him  fiendishly,  in  six  words,  without  comment. 


I  HEARD  the  clatter  of  the  scissors  escaping  from 
his  hand,  noted  the  perilous  heave  of  his  whole 
person  over  the  edge  of  the  bunk  after  them,  and 
then,  returning  to  my  first  purpose,  pursued  my 
course  on  the  deck.  The  sparkle  of  the  sea  filled 
my  eyes.  It  was  gorgeous  and  barren,  monotonous 
and  without  hope  under  the  empty  curve  of  the 
sky.  The  sails  hung  motionless  and  slack,  the 
very  folds  of  their  sagging  surfaces  moved  no  more 
than  carved  granite.  The  impetuosity  of  my  ad- 
vent made  the  man  at  the  helm  start  slightly.  A 
block  aloft  squeaked  incomprehensibly,  for  what 
on  earth  could  have  made  it  do  so?  It  was  a 
whistling  note  like  a  bird's.  For  a  long,  long  time 
I  faced  an  empty  world,  steeped  in  an  infinity  of 
silence,  through  which  the  sunshine  poured  and 
flowed  for  some  mysterious  purpose.  Then  I  heard 
Ransome's  voice  at  my  elbow. 

"I  have  put  IVIr.  Burns  back  to  bed,  sir/* 

"You  have." 

"  Well,  sir,  he  got  out,  all  of  a  sudden,  but  when 

134 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  135 

he  let  go  the  edge  of  his  bunk  he  fell  down.     He 
isn't  light-headed,  though,  it  seems  to  me." 

"No,"  I  said  dully,  without  looking  at  Ransome. 
He  waited  for  a  moment,  then  cautiously,  as  if  not 
to  give  offence:  "I  don't  think  we  need  lose  much 
of  that  stuff,  sir,"  he  said,  "I  can  sweep  it  up,  every 
bit  of  it  almost,  and  then  we  could  sift  the  glass  out. 
I  will  go  about  it  at  once.  It  will  not  make  the 
breakfast  late,  not  ten  minutes.'* 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  said  bitterly.  "Let  the  breakfast 
wait,  sweep  up  every  bit  of  it,  and  then  throw 
the  damned  lot  overboard!" 

The  profound  silence  returned,  and  when  I 
looked  over  my  shoulder,  Ransome — the  intelli- 
gent, serene  Ransome — had  vanished  from  my 
side.  The  intense  loneliness  of  the  sea  acted  like 
poison  on  my  brain.  When  I  turned  my  eyes  to  the 
ship,  I  had  a  morbid  vision  of  her  as  a  floating 
grave.  Who  hasn't  heard  of  ships  found  floating, 
haphazard,  with  their  crews  all  dead?  I  looked  at 
the  seaman  at  the  helm,  I  had  an  impulse  to  speak 
to  him,  and,  indeed,  his  face  took  on  an  expectant 
cast  as  if  he  had  guessed  my  intention.  But  in  the 
end  I  went  below,  thinking  I  would  be  alone  with 
the  greatness  of  my  trouble  for  a  little  while.  But 
through    his    open    door    Mr.    Burns    saw    me 


136  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

come  down,  and  addressed  me  grumpily:  "Well, 
sirr 

I  went  in.     "It  isn't  well  at  all,"  I  said. 

Mr  Burns,  reestablished  in  his  bed-place,  was 
concealing  his  hirsute  cheek  in  the  palm  of  his 
hand. 

"That  confounded  fellow  has  taken  away  the 
scissors  from  me,"  were  the  next  words  he  said. 

The  tension  I  was  suflPering  from  was  so  great 
that  it  was  perhaps  just  as  well  that  Mr.  Burns  had 
started  on  his  grievance.  He  seemed  very  sore 
about  it  and  grumbled,  "Does  he  think  I  am  mad, 
or  what?  " 

"I  don't  think  so,  Mr.  Burns,"  I  said.  I  looked 
upon  him  at  that  moment  as  a  model  of  self- 
possession.  I  even  conceived  on  that  account  a 
sort  of  admiration  for  that  man,  who  had  (apart 
from  the  intense  materiality  of  what  was  left  of  his 
beard)  come  as  near  to  being  a  disembodied  spirit 
as  any  man  can  do  and  hve.  I  noticed  the  pre- 
ternatural sharpness  of  the  ridge  of  his  nose,  the 
deep  cavities  of  his  temples,  and  I  envied  him.  He 
was  so  reduced  that  he  would  probably  die  very 
soon.  Enviable  man!  So  near  extinction — while 
I  had  to  bear  within  me  a  tumult  of  suffering 
vitality,  doubt,  confusion,  self-reproach,  and  an  in- 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  137 

definite  reluctance  to  meet  the  horrid  logic  of  the 
situation.  I  could  not  help  muttering:  "I  feel  as 
if  I  were  going  mad  myself." 

IMr.  Burns  glared  spectrally,  but  otherwise 
wonderfully  composed. 

"I  always  thought  he  would  play  us  some  deadly 
trick,"  he  said,  with  a  peculiar  emphasis  on  the 
he. 

It  gave  me  a  mental  shock,  but  I  had  neither  the 
mind,  nor  the  heart,  nor  the  spirit  to  argue  with 
him.  My  form  of  sickness  was  indifference.  The 
creeping  paralysis  of  a  hopeless  outlook.  So  I 
only  gazed  at  him.  Mr.  Burns  broke  into  further 
speech. 

"Eh!  What!  No!  You  won't  believe  it.?  Well, 
how  do  you  account  for  this.''  How  do  you  think  it 
could  have  happened.''" 

"Happened.''"  I  repeated  dully.  "Why,  yes, 
how  in  the  name  of  the  infernal  powers  did  this 
thing  happen.''" 

Indeed,  on  thinking  it  out,  it  seemed  incompre- 
hensible that  it  should  just  be  like  this :  the  bottles 
emptied,  refilled,  re  wrapped,  and  replaced.  A  sort 
of  plot,  a  sinister  attempt  to  deceive,  a  thing  re- 
sembling  sly  vengeance,  but  for  what.''  Or  else  a 
fiendish  joke.     But  Mr.  Burns  was  in  possession  of 


138  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

a  theory.  It  was  simple,  and  he  uttered  it  solemnly 
in  a  hollow  voice. 

"I  suppose  they  have  given  him  about  fifteen 
pounds  in  Haiphong  for  that  little  lot." 

"Mr.  Bums!"  I  cried. 

He  nodded  grotesquely  over  his  raised  legs,  like 
two  broomsticks  in  the  pyjamas,  with  enormous 
bare  feet  at  the  end. 

"Why  not.'*  The  stuff  is  pretty  expensive  in  this 
part  of  the  world,  and  they  were  very  short  of  it  in 
Tonkin.  And  what  did  he  care.'^  You  have  not 
known  him.  I  have,  and  I  have  defied  him.  He 
feared  neither  God,  nor  devil,  nor  man,  nor  wind, 
nor  sea,  nor  his  own  conscience.  And  I  believe  he 
hated  everybody  and  everything.  But  I  think  he 
was  afraid  to  die.  I  beheve  I  am  the  only  man 
who  ever  stood  up  to  him.  I  faced  him  in  that 
cabin  where  you  five  now,  when  he  was  sick,  and  I 
cowed  him  then.  He  thought  I  was  going  to  twist 
his  neck  for  him.  If  he  had  had  his  way  w^e  would 
have  been  beating  up  against  the  Nord-East  mon- 
soon, as  long  as  he  lived  and  afterward,  too,  for  ages 
and  ages.  Acting  the  Flying  Dutchman  in  the 
China  Sea!     Ha!     Ha!" 

"But  why  should  he  replace  the  bottles  like 
this?"     .     .     .    I  began. 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  139 

"Why  shouldn't  he?  Why  should  he  want  to 
throw  the  bottles  away?  They  fit  the  drawer. 
They  belong  to  the  medicine  chest." 

"And  they  were  wrapped  up,"  I  cried. 

"Well,  the  wrappers  were  there.  Did  it  from 
habit,  I  suppose,  and  as  to  refilling,  there  is  always 
a  lot  of  stuff  they  send  in  paper  parcels  that  burst 
after  a  time.  And  then,  who  can  tell?  I  suppose 
you  didn't  taste  it,  sir?  But,  of  course,  you  are 
sure.     ..." 

"No,"  I  said.  "I  didn't  taste  it.  It  is  all  over- 
board now." 

Behind  me,  a  soft,  cultivated  voice  said :  "I  have 
tasted  it.  It  seemed  a  mixture  of  all  sorts,  sweet- 
ish, saltish,  very  horrible." 

Ransome,  stepping  out  of  the  pantry,  had  been 
listening  for  some  time,  as  it  was  very  excusable 
in  him  to  do. 

"A  dirty  trick,"  said  Mr.  Burns.  "I  always 
ssiid  he  would." 

The  magnitude  of  my  indignation  was  un- 
bounded. And  the  kind,  sympathetic  doctor,  too. 
The  only  sympathetic  man  I  ever  knew  .  .  . 
instead  of  writing  that  warning  letter,  the  very  re- 
finement of  sympathy,  why  didn't  the  man  make  a 
proper  inspection?     But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was 


140  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

hardly  fair  to  blame  the  doctor.  The  fittings  were 
in  order  and  the  medicine  chest  is  an  officially  ar- 
ranged affair.  There  was  nothing  really  to  arouse 
the  slightest  suspicion.  The  person  I  could  never 
forgive  was  myself.  Nothing  should  ever  be  taken 
for  granted.  The  seed  of  everlasting  remorse  was 
sown  in  my  breast. 

"I  feel  it's  all  my  fault,"  I  exclaimed,  "mine  and 
nobody  else's.  That's  how  I  feel.  I  shall  never 
forgive  myself." 

"  That's  very  foolish,  sir,"  said  jVIt.  Burns  fiercely. 

And  after  this  effort  he  fell  back  exhausted  on 
his  bed.  He  closed  his  eyes,  he  panted;  this  affair, 
this  abominable  surprise  had  shaken  him  up,  too. 
As  I  turned  away  I  perceived  Ransome  looking  at 
me  blankly.  He  appreciated  what  it  meant,  but 
managed  to  produce  his  pleasant,  wistful  smile. 
Then  he  stepped  back  into  his  pantry,  and  I  rushed 
up  on  deck  again  to  see  whether  there  was  any 
wind,  any  breath  under  the  sky,  any  stir  of  the  air, 
any  sign  of  hope.  The  deadly  stillness  met  me 
again.  Nothing  was  changed  except  that  there 
was  a  different  man  at  the  wheel.  He  looked  ill. 
His  whole  figure  drooped,  and  he  seemed  rather  to 
cling  to  the  spokes  than  hold  them  with  a  controll- 
ing grip.     I  said  to  him: 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  141 

"You  are  not  fit  to  be  here." 

"I  can  manage,  sir,"  he  said  feebly. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  was  nothing  for  him  to  do . 
The  ship  had  no  steerage  way.  She  lay  with  her 
head  to  the  westward,  the  everlasting  Koh-ring 
visible  over  the  stern,  with  a  few  small  islets,  black 
spots  in  the  great  blaze,  swimming  before  my 
troubled  eyes.  And  but  for  those  bits  of  land  there 
was  no  speck  on  the  sky,  no  speck  on  the  water,  no 
shape  of  vapour,  no  wisp  of  smoke,  no  sail,  no  boat, 
no  stir  of  humanity,  no  sign  of  life,  nothing! 

The  first  question  was,  what  to  do.f^  What  could 
one  do.^  The  first  thing  to  do  obviously  was  to  tell 
the  men.  I  did  it  that  very  day.  I  wasn't  going 
to  let  the  knowledge  simply  get  about.  I  would 
face  them.  They  were  assembled  on  the  quarter- 
deck for  the  purpose.  Just  before  I  stepped  out  to 
speak  to  them  I  discovered  that  life  could  hold 
terrible  moments.  No  confessed  criminal  had  ever 
been  so  oppressed  by  his  sense  of  guilt.  This  is 
why,  perhaps,  my  face  was  set  hard  and  my  voice 
curt  and  unemotional  while  I  made  my  declaration 
that  I  could  do  nothing  more  for  the  sick  in  the  way 
of  drugs.  As  to  such  care  as  could  be  given  them 
they  knew  they  had  had  it. 

I  would  have  held  them  justified  in  tearing  me 


142  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

limb  from  limb.  The  silence  which  followed  upon 
my  words  was  almost  harder  to  bear  than  the 
angriest  uproar.  I  was  crushed  by  the  infinite 
depth  of  its  reproach.  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I 
was  mistaken.  In  a  voice  which  I  had  great  diffi- 
culty in  keeping  firm,  I  went  on:  "I  suppose,  men, 
you  have  understood  what  I  said,  and  you  know 
what  it  means." 

A  voice  or  two  were  heard :  "  Yes,  sir.  .  .  .  We 
understand." 

They  had  kept  silent  simply  because  they 
thought  that  they  were  not  called  to  say  anything; 
and  when  I  told  them  that  I  intended  to  run  into 
Singapore  and  that  the  best  chance  for  the  ship 
and  the  men  was  in  the  efforts  all  of  us,  sick  and 
well,  must  make  to  get  her  along  out  of  this,  I  re- 
ceived the  encouragement  of  a  low  assenting  mur- 
mm*  and  of  a  louder  voice  exclaiming:  "Surely 
there  is  a  way  out  of  this  blamed  hole." 


Here  is  an  extract  from  the  notes  I  wrote  at  the 
time. 

"  We  have  lost  Koh-ring  at  last.  For  many  days 
now  I  don't  think  I  have  been  two  hours  below  al- 
together.    I  remain  on  deck,  of  course,  night  and 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  143 

day,  and  the  nights  and  the  days  wheel  over  us  in 
succession,  whether  long  or  short,  who  can  say? 
All  sense  of  time  is  lost  in  the  monotony  of  ex- 
pectation, of  hope,  and  of  desire — which  is  only 
one :  Get  the  ship  to  the  southward !  Get  the  ship 
to  the  southward!  The  effect  is  curiously  me- 
chanical; the  sun  chmbs  and  descends,  the  night 
swings  over  our  heads  as  if  somebody  below  the 
horizon  were  turning  a  crank.  It  is  the  prettiest, 
the  most  aimless!  .  .  .  and  all  through  that 
miserable  performance  I  go  on,  tramping,  tramp- 
ing the  deck.  How  many  miles  have  I  walked  on 
the  poop  of  that  ghip!  A  stubborn  pilgrimage  of 
sheer  restlessness,  diversified  by  short  excursions 
below  to  look  upon  Mr.  Burns.  I  don't  know 
whether  it  is  an  illusion,  but  he  seems  to  become 
more  substantial  from  day  to  day.  He  doesn't  say 
much,  for,  indeed,  the  situation  doesn't  lend  itself 
to  idle  remarks.  I  notice  this  even  with  the  men  as 
I  watch  them  moving  or  sitting  about  the  decks. 
They  don't  talk  to  each  other.  It  strikes  me  that 
if  there  exists  an  invisible  ear  catching  the  whispers 
of  the  earth,  it  will  find  this  ship  the  most  silent 
spot  on  it.     .     .     . 

"No,  Mr.  Burns  has  not  much  to  say  to  me.    He 
sits  in  his  bunk  with  his  beard  gone,  his  moustaches 


144  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

flaming,  and  with  an  air  of  silent  determination  on 
his  chalky  physiognomy.  Ransome  tells  me  he 
devours  all  the  food  that  is  given  him  to  the  last 
scrap,  but  that,  apparently,  he  sleeps  very  little. 
Even  at  night,  when  I  go  below  to  fill  my  pipe,  I 
notice  that,  though  dozing  flat  on  his  back,  he 
still  looks  very  determined.  From  the  side  glance 
he  gives  me  when  awake  it  seems  as  though  he  were 
annoyed  at  being  interrupted  in  some  arduous 
mental  operation;  and  as  I  emerge  on  deck  the 
ordered  arrangement  of  the  stars  meets  my  eye,  un- 
clouded, infinitely  wearisome.  There  they  are; 
stars,  sun,  sea,  fight,  darkness,  space,  great  waters; 
the  formidable  Work  of  the  Seven  Days,  into  which 
mankind  seems  to  have  blundered  unbidden.  Or 
else  decoyed.  Even  as  I  have  been  decoyed  into 
this  awful,  this  death-haunted  command.    .    .    ." 


The  only  spot  of  light  in  the  ship  at  night  was 
that  of  the  compass-lamps,  lighting  up  the  faces  of 
the  succeeding  helmsmen ;  for  the  rest  we  were  lost 
in  the  darkness,  I  walking  the  poop  and  the  men 
lying  about  the  decks.  They  were  all  so  reduced 
by  sickness  that  no  watches  could  be  kept.  Those 
who  were  able  to  walk  remained  all  the  time  on 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  145 

duty,  lying  about  in  the  shadows  of  the  main  deck, 
till  my  voice  raised  for  an  order  would  bring  them 
to  their  enfeebled  feet,  a  tottering  little  group,  mov- 
ing patently  about  the  ship,  with  hardly  a  mur- 
mur, a  whisper  amongst  them  all.  And  every 
time  I  had  to  raise  my  voice  it  was  with  a  pang  of 
remorse  and  pity. 

Then  about  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  a  light 
would  gleam  forward  in  the  galley.  The  unfailing 
Ransome  with  the  uneasy  heart,  immune,  serene, 
and  active,  was  getting  ready  for  the  early  cofiFee  for 
the  men.  Presently  he  would  bring  me  a  cup  up 
on  the  poop,  and  it  was  then  that  I  allowed  myself 
to  drop  into  my  deck  chair  for  a  couple  of  hours  of 
real  sleep.  No  doubt  I  must  have  been  snatching 
short  dozes  when  leaning  against  the  rail  for  a  mo- 
ment in  sheer  exhaustion;  but,  honestly,  I  was  not 
aware  of  them,  except  in  the  painful  form  of  con- 
vulsive starts  that  seemed  to  come  on  me  even 
while  I  walked.  From  about  five,  however,  until 
after  seven  I  would  sleep  openly  under  the  fading 
stars. 

I  would  say  to  the  helmsman:  "Call  me  at 
need,"  and  drop  into  that  chair  and  close  my  eyes, 
feehng  that  there  was  no  more  sleep  for  me  on 
earth.     And  then  I  would  know  nothing  till,  some 


146  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

time  between  seven  and  eight,  I  would  feel  a  touch 
on  my  shoulder  and  look  up  at  Ransome's  face, 
with  its  faint,  wistful  smile  and  friendly,  gray 
eyes,  as  though  he  were  tenderly  amused  at  my 
slumbers.  Occasionally  the  second  mate  would 
come  up  and  relieve  me  at  early  coffee  time.  But 
it  didn't  really  matter.  Generally  it  was  a  dead 
calm,  or  else  faint  airs  so  changing  and  fugitive 
that  it  really  wasn't  worth  while  to  touch  a  brace 
for  them.  If  the  air  steadied  at  all  the  seaman  at 
the  helm  could  be  trusted  for  a  warning  shout: 
"Ship's  all  aback,  sir!"  which  like  a  trumpet- 
call  would  make  me  spring  a  foot  above  the  deck. 
Those  were  the  words  which  it  seemed  to  me  would 
have  made  me  spring  up  from  eternal  sleep.  But 
this  was  not  often.  I  have  never  met  since  such 
breathless  sunrises.  And  if  the  second  mate  hap- 
pened to  be  there  (he  had  generally  one  day  in 
three  free  of  fever)  I  would  find  him  sitting  on  the 
skylight  half  senseless,  as  it  were,  and  with  an 
idiotic  gaze  fastened  on  some  object  near  by — a 
rope,  a  cleat,  a  belaying  pin,  a  ringbolt. 

That  young  man  was  rather  troublesome.  He 
remained  cubbish  in  his  sufferings.  He  seemed  to 
have  become  completely  imbecile;  and  when  the  re- 
turn of  fever  drove  him  to  his  cabin  below,  the  next 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  147 

thing  would  be  that  we  would  miss  him  from  there. 
The  first  time  it  happened  Ransome  and  I  were 
very  much  alarmed.  We  started  a  quiet  search 
and  ultimately  Ransome  discovered  him  curled  up 
in  the  sail-locker,  which  opened  into  the  lobby  by  a 
shding  door.  When  remonstrated  with,  he  mut- 
tered sulkily,  "It's  cool  in  there."  That  wasn't 
true.     It  was  only  dark  there. 

The  fundamental  defects  of  his  face  were  not  im- 
proved by  its  uniform  Kvid  hue.  The  disease  dis- 
closed its  low  type  in  a  startling  way.  It  was  not 
so  with  many  of  the  men.  The  wastage  of  ill- 
health  seemed  to  idealise  the  general  character  of 
the  features,  bringing  out  the  unsuspected  nobility 
of  some,  the  strength  of  others,  and  in  one  case  re- 
vealing an  essentially  comic  aspect.  He  was  a 
short,  gingery,  active  man  with  a  nose  and  chin  of 
the  Punch  type,  and  whom  his  shipmates  called 
"Frenchy."  I  don't  know  why.  He  may  have 
been  a  Frenchman,  but  I  have  never  heard  him 
utter  a  single  word  in  French. 

To  see  him  coming  aft  to  the  wheel  comforted 
one.  The  blue  dungaree  trousers  turned  up  the 
calf,  one  leg  a  little  higher  than  the  other,  the  clean 
check  shirt,  the  white  canvas  cap,  evidently  made 
by  himself,  made  up  a  whole  of  peculiar  smartness, 


148  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

and  the  persistent  jauntiness  of  his  gait,  even,  poor 
fellow,  when  he  couldn't  help  tottering,  told  of  his 
invincible  spirit.  There  was  also  a  man  called 
Gambril.  He  was  the  only  grizzled  person  in  the 
ship.  His  face  was  of  an  austere  type.  But  if  I  re- 
member all  their  faces,  wasting  tragically  before  my 
eyes,  most  of  their  names  have  vanished  from  my 
memory. 

The  words  that  passed  between  us  were  few  and 
puerile  in  regard  of  the  situation.  I  had  to  force 
myself  to  look  them  in  the  face.  I  expected  to 
meet  reproachful  glances.  There  were  none.  The 
expression  of  suffering  in  their  eyes  was  indeed 
hard  enough  to  bear.  But  that  they  couldn't  help. 
For  the  rest,  I  ask  myself  whether  it  was  the  temper 
of  their  souls  or  the  s\Txipathy  of  their  imagination 
that  made  them  so  wonderful,  so  worthy  of  my  un- 
dying regard. 

For  myself,  neither  my  soul  was  highly  tempered, 
nor  my  imagination  properly  under  control.  There 
were  moments  when  I  felt,  not  only  that  I  would  go 
mad,  but  that  I  had  gone  mad  already;  so  that  I 
dared  not  open  my  lips  for  fear  of  betraying  myself 
by  some  insane  shriek.  Luckily  I  had  only  orders 
to  give,  and  an  order  has  a  steadying  influence  upon 
him  who  has  to  give  it.     ^loreover,  the  seaman, 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  149 

the  officer  of  the  watch,  in  me  was  sufficiently  sane. 
I  was  Uke  a  mad  carpenter  maldng  a  box. 
Were  he  ever  so  convinced  that  he  was  King  of 
Jerusalem,  the  box  he  would  make  would  be  a  sane 
box.  What  I  feared  was  a  shrill  note  escaping  me 
involuntarily  and  upsetting  my  balance.  Luckily, 
again,  there  was  no  necessity  to  raise  one's  voice. 
The  brooding  stillness  of  the  world  seemed  sensitive 
to  the  slightest  sound,  like  a  whispering  gallery. 
The  conversational  tone  would  almost  carry  a 
word  from  one  end  of  the  ship  to  the  other.  The 
terrible  thing  was  that  the  only  voice  that  I  ever 
heard  was  my  own.  .At  night  especially  it  reverber- 
ated very  lonely  amongst  the  planes  of  the  un- 
stirring  sails. 

Mr.  Bums,  still  keeping  to  his  bed  with  that  air 
of  secret  determination,  was  moved  to  grumble  at 
many  things.  Our  interviews  were  short  five- 
minute  affairs,  but  fairly  frequent.  I  was  everlast- 
ingly diving  down  below  to  get  a  light,  though  I  did 
not  consume  much  tobacco  at  that  time.  The  pipe 
was  always  going  out;  for  in  truth  my  mind  was  not 
composed  enough  to  enable  me  to  get  a  decent 
smoke.  Likewise,  for  most  of  the  time  during  the 
twenty -four  hours  I  could  have  struck  matches  on 
deck  and  held  them  aloft  till  the  flame  burnt  my 


150  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

fingers.  But  I  always  used  to  run  below.  It  was 
a  change.  It  was  the  only  break  in  the  incessant 
strain;  and,  of  course,  Mr.  Burns  through  the  open 
door  could  see  nie  come  in  and  go  out  every  time. 

With  his  knees  gathered  up  under  his  chin  and 
staring  with  his  greenish  eyes  over  them,  he  was  a 
weird  figure,  and  with  my  knowledge  of  the  crazy 
notion  in  his  head,  not  a  very  attractive  one  for  me. 
Still,  I  had  to  speak  to  him  now  and  then,  and  one 
day  he  complained  that  the  ship  was  very  silent. 
For  hours  and  hours,  he  said,  he  was  lying  there,  not 
hearing  a  sound,  till  he  did  not  know  what  to  do 
with  himself. 

"\Mien  Ransome  happens  to  be  forward  in  his 
galley  everything's  so  still  that  one  might  think 
everybody  in  the  ship  was  dead,"  he  grumbled. 
"  The  only  voice  I  do  hear  sometimes  is  yours,  sir, 
and  that  isn't  enough  to  cheer  me  up.  TMiat's  the 
matter  with  the  men?  Isn't  there  one  left  that  can 
sing  out  at  the  ropes?" 

"Not  one,  Mr.  Burns,"  I  said.  "There  is  no 
breath  to  spare  on  board  this  ship  for  that.  Are 
you  aware  that  there  are  times  when  I  can't  muster 
more  than  three  hands  to  do  anything?" 

He  asked  swiftly  but  fearfully : 

"Nobody  dead  yet,  sir?" 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  151 

"No." 

"It  wouldn't  do,"  Mr,  Burns  declared  forcibly. 
"Mustn't  let  liini.  If  he  gets  hold  of  one  he  will 
get  them  all." 

I  cried  out  angrily  at  this.  I  believe  I  even 
swore  at  the  disturbing  effect  of  these  words. 
They  attacked  all  the  self-possession  that  was  left 
to  me.  In  my  endless  vigil  in  the  face  of  the  enemy 
I  had  been  haunted  by  gruesome  images  enough.  I 
had  had  visions  of  a  ship  drifting  in  calms  and 
swinging  in  light  airs,  with  all  her  crew  dying  slowly 
about  her  decks.  Such  things  had  been  known  to 
happen. 

Mr.  Burns  met  my  outburst  by  a  mysterious 
silence. 

"Look  here,"  I  said.  "You  don't  beheve  your- 
self what  you  say.  You  can't.  It's  impossible. 
It  isn't  the  sort  of  thing  I  have  a  right  to  expect 
from  you.  My  position's  bad  enough  without 
being  worried  with  your  silly  fancies," 

He  remained  unmoved.  On  account  of  the  way 
in  which  the  light  fell  on  his  head  I  could  not  be 
sure  whether  he  had  smiled  faintly  or  not.  I 
changed  my  tone. 

"Listen,"  I  said.  "It's  getting  so  desperate 
that  I  had  thought  for  a  moment,  since  we  can't 


152  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

make  our  way  south,  whether  I  wouldn't  try  to 
steer  west  and  make  an  attempt  to  reach  the  mail- 
boat  track.  We  could  always  get  some  quinine 
from  her,  at  least.     What  do  you  think.^^" 

He  cried  out:  "No,  no,  no.  Don't  do  that,  sir. 
You  mustn't  for  a  moment  give  up  facing  that  old 
ruffian.  If  you  do  he  will  get  the  upper  hand  of 
us." 

I  left  him.  He  was  impossible.  It  was  like  a 
case  of  possession.  His  protest,  however,  was 
essentially  quite  sound.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  my 
notion  of  heading  out  west  on  the  chance  of  sight- 
ing a  problematical  steamer  could  not  bear  calm 
examination.  On  the  side  where  we  were  we  had 
enough  wind,  at  least  from  time  to  time,  to  struggle 
on  toward  the  south.  Enough,  at  least,  to  keep 
hope  alive.  But  suppose  that  I  had  used  those 
capricious  gusts  of  wind  to  sail  away  to  the  west- 
ward, into  some  region  where  there  was  not  a 
breath  of  air  for  days  on  end,  what  then.'*  Perhaps 
my  appalling  vision  of  a  ship  floating  with  a  dead 
crew  would  become  a  reality  for  the  discovery 
weeks  afterward  by  some  horror-stricken  mariners. 

That  afternoon  Ransome  brought  me  up  a  cup 
of  tea,  and  while  waiting  there,  tray  in  hand,  he  re- 
marked in  the  exactly  r'ght  tone  of  sympathy: 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  153 

"You  are  holding  out  well,  sir." 

"Yes,"  I  said.  "You  and  I  seem  to  have  been 
forgotten." 

"Forgotten,  sir.?" 

"Yes,  by  the  fever-devil  who  has  got  on  board 
this  ship,"  I  said. 

Ransome  gave  me  one  of  his  attractive,  intelli- 
gent, quick  glances  and  went  away  with  the  tray. 
It  occurred  to  me  that  I  had  been  talking  some- 
what in  Mr.  Burns'  manner.  It  annoyed  me.  Yet 
often  in  darker  moments  I  forgot  myself  into  an 
attitude  toward  our  troubles  more  fit  for  a  contest 
against  a  living  enemy. 

Yes.  The  fever-devil  had  not  laid  his  hand  yet 
either  on  Ransome  or  on  me.  But  he  might  at  any 
time.  It  was  one  of  those  thoughts  one  had  to 
fight  down,  keep  at  arm's  length  at  any  cost.  It 
was  unbearable  to  contemplate  the  possibility  of 
Ransome,  the  housekeeper  of  the  ship,  being  laid 
low.  And  what  would  happen  to  my  command  if 
I  got  knocked  over,  with  Mr.  Burns  too  weak  to 
stand  without  holding  on  to  his  bed-place  and  the 
second  mate  reduced  to  a  state  of  permanent  im- 
becility? It  was  impossible  to  imagine,  or  rather, 
it  was  only  too  easy  to  imagine. 

I  was  alone  on  the  poop.     The  ship  having  no 


154  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

steerage  way,  I  had  sent  the  helmsman  away  to  sit 
down  or  he  down  somewhere  in  the  shade.  The 
men's  strength  was  so  reduced  that  all  unnecessary 
calls  on  it  had  to  be  avoided.  It  was  the  austere 
Gambril  with  the  grizzly  beard.  He  went  away 
readily  enough,  but  he  was  so  weakened  by  re- 
peated bouts  of  fever,  poor  fellow,  that  in  order  to 
get  down  the  poop  ladder  he  had  to  turn  sideways 
and  hang  on  vnth.  both  hands  to  the  brass  rail.  It 
was  just  simply  heart-breaking  to  watch.  Yet  he 
was  neither  very  much  worse  nor  much  better  than 
most  of  the  haK-dozen  miserable  victims  I  could 
muster  up  on  deck. 

It  was  a  terribly  lifeless  afternoon.  For  several 
days  in  succession  low  clouds  had  appeared  in  the 
distance,  white  masses  with  dark  convolutions  rest- 
ing on  the  water,  motionless,  almost  solid,  and  yet 
all  the  time  changing  their  aspects  subtly.  To- 
ward evening  they  vanished  as  a  rule.  But  this 
day  they  awaited  the  setting  sun,  which  glowed  and 
smouldered  sulkily  amongst  them  before  it  sank 
down.  The  punctual  and  wearisome  stars  re- 
appeared over  our  mastheads,  but  the  air  remained 
stagnant  and  oppressive. 

The  unfaihng  Ransome  lighted  the  binnacle-, 
lamps  and  glided,  all  shadowy,  up  to  me. 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  155 

"Will  you  go  down  and  try  to  eat  something, 
sir?"  he  suggested. 

His  low  voice  startled  me.  I  had  been  standing 
looking  out  over  the  rail,  saying  nothing,  feeUng 
nothing,  not  even  the  weariness  of  my  Hmbs,  over- 
come by  the  evil  spell. 

"kansome,"  I  asked  abruptly,  "how  long  have  I 
been  on  deck.''     I  am  losing  the  notion  of  time." 

"Twelve  days,  sir,'*  he  said,  "and  it's  just  a 
fortnight  since  we  left  the  anchorage." 

His  equable  voice  sounded  mournful  somehow. 
He  waited  a  bit,  then  added:  "It's  the  first  time 
that  it  looks  as  if  we  were  to  have  some  rain." 

I  noticed  then  the  broad  shadow  on  the  horizon, 
extinguishing  the  low  stars  completely,  while  those 
overhead,  when  I  looked  up,  seemed  to  shine  down 
on  us  through  a  veil  of  smoke. 

How  it  got  there,  how  it  had  crept  up  so  high,  I 
couldn't  say.  It  had  an  ominous  appearance.  The 
air  did  not  stir.  At  a  renewed  invitation  from 
Ransome  I  did  go  down  into  the  cabin  to — in  his 
own  words — "try  and  eat  something."  I  don't 
know  that  the  trial  was  very  successful.  I  sup- 
pose at  that  period  I  did  exist  on  food  in  the  usual 
way;  but  the  memory  is  now  that  in  those  days  life 
was  sustained  on  invincible  anguish,  as  a  sort  of 


156  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

infernal  stimulant  exciting  and  consuming  at  the 
same  time. 

It's  the  only  period  of  my  life  in  which  I  at- 
tempted to  keep  a  diary.  No,  not  the  only  one. 
Years  later,  in  conditions  of  moral  isolation,  I  did 
put  down  on  paper  the  thoughts  and  events  of  a 
score  of  days.  But  this  was  the  first  time.  I  don't 
remember  hovv  it  came  about  or  how  the  pocket- 
book  and  the  pencil  came  into  my  hands.  It's  in- 
conceivable that  I  should  have  looked  for  them  on 
purpose.  I  suppose  they  saved  me  from  the  crazy 
trick  of  talking  to  myself. 

Strangely  enough,  in  both  cases  I  took  to  that 
sort  of  thing  in  circumstances  in  which  I  did  not  ex- 
pect, in  colloquial  phrase,  "to  come  out  of  it." 
Neither  could  I  expect  the  record  to  outlast  me. 
This  shows  that  it  vras  purely  a  personal  need  for 
intimate  relief  and  not  a  call  of  egotism. 

Here  I  must  give  another  sample  of  it,  a  few  de- 
tached lines,  now  looking  very  ghostly  to  my  own 
eyes,  out  of  the  part  scribbled  that  very  evening: 


"There  is  something  going  on  in  the  sky  like 
a  decomposition;  like  a  corruption  of  the  air, 
which  remains  as  still  as  ever.     After  all,  mere 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  157 

clouds,  which  may  or  may  not  hold  wind  or  rain. 
Strange  that  it  should  trouble  me  so.  I  feel  as  if  all 
my  sins  had  found  me  out.  But  I  suppose  the 
trouble  is  that  the  ship  is  still  lying  motionless,  not 
under  command;  and  that  I  have  nothing  to  do  to 
keep  my  imagination  from  running  wild  amongst 
the  disastrous  images  of  the  worst  that  may  befall 
us.  What's  going  to  happen.'^  Probably  nothing. 
Or  anything.  It  may  be  a  furious  squall  coming, 
butt  end  foremost.  And  on  deck  there  are  five 
men  with  the  vitality  and  the  strength,  of  say,  two. 
We  may  have  all  our  sails  blown  away.  Every 
stitch  of  canvas  has  been  on  her  since  we  broke 
ground  at  the  mouth  of  the  Mei-nam,  fifteen  days 
ago  ...  or  fifteen  centuries.  It  seems  to  me 
that  all  my  life  before  that  momentous  day  is  in- 
finitely remote,  a  fading  memory  of  light-hearted 
youth,  something  on  the  other  side  of  a  shadow. 
Yes,  sails  may  very  well  be  blown  away.  And  that 
would  be  like  a  death  sentence  on  the  men.  We 
haven't  strength  enough  on  board  to  bend  another 
suit;  incredible  thought,  but  it  is  true.  Or  we  may 
even  get  dismasted.  Ships  have  been  dismasted  in 
squalls  simply  because  they  weren't  handled  quick 
enough,  and  we  have  no  power  to  whirl  the  yards 
around.     It's  like  being  bound  hand  and  foot  pre- 


158  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

paratory  to  having  one's  throat  cut.  And  what 
appals  me  most  of  all  is  that  I  shrink  from  going  on 
deck  to  face  it.  It's  due  to  the  ship,  it's  due  to  the 
men  who  are  there  on  deck — some  of  them,  ready 
to  put  out  the  last  remnant  of  their  strength  at  a 
word  from  me.  And  I  am  shrinking  from  it.  From 
the  mere  vision.  My  first  command.  Now  I 
understand  that  strange  sense  of  insecurity  in  my 
past.  I  always  suspected  that  I  might  be  no  good. 
And  here  is  proof  positive.  I  am  shirking  it.  I 
am  no  good." 


At  that  moment,  or,  perhaps,  the  moment  after, 
I  became  aware  of  Ransome  standing  in  the  cabin. 
Something  in  his  expression  startled  me.  It  had  a 
meaning  which  I  could  not  make  out.  I  exclaimed : 
"Somebody's  dead." 

It  was  his  turn  then  to  look  startled. 

"Dead.^  Not  that  I  know  of,  sir.  I  have  been  in 
the  forecastle  only  ten  minutes  ago  and  there  was 
no  dead  man  there  then." 

"You  did  give  me  a  scare,"  I  said. 

His  voice  was  extremely  pleasant  to  listen  to. 
He  explained  that  he  had  come  down  below  to  close 
Mr.  Burns'  port  in  case  it  should  come  on  to  rain. 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  159 

He  did  not  know  that  I  was  in  the  cabin,  he 
added. 

"How  does  it  look  outside?"  I  asked  him. 

"Very  black,  indeed,  sir.  There  is  something  in 
it  for  certain." 

"In  what  quarter.?" 

"All  round,  sir." 

I  repeated  idly:  "All  round.  For  certain,"  with 
my  elbows  on  the  table. 

Ransome  lingered  in  the  cabin  as  if  he  had  some- 
thing to  do  there,  but  hesitated  about  doing  it.  I 
said  suddenly: 

"You  think  I  ought  to  be  on  deck.'*" 

He  answered  at  once  but  without  any  particular 
emphasis  or  accent:   "I  do,  sir." 

I  got  to  my  feet  briskly,  and  he  made  way  for  me 
to  go  out.  As  I  passed  through  the  lobby  I  heard 
Mr.  Burns'  voice  saying: 

"Shut  the  door  of  my  room,  will  you,  steward.''" 
And  Ransome's  rather  surprised:  "Certainly,  sir." 

I  thought  that  all  my  feelings  had  been  dulled 
into  complete  indifference.  But  I  found  it  as  try- 
ing as  ever  to  be  on  deck.  The  impenetrable  black- 
ness beset  the  ship  so  close  that  it  seemed  that  by 
thrusting  one's  hand  over  the  side  one  could  touch 
some  unearthly  substance.     There  was  in  it  an 


160  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

effect  of  inconceivable  terror  and  of  inexpressible 
mystery.  The  few  stars  overhead  shed  a  dim  light 
upon  the  ship  alone,  with  no  gleams  of  any  kind 
upon  the  water,  in  detached  shafts  piercing  an  at- 
mosphere which  had  turned  to  soot.  It  was  some- 
thing I  had  never  seen  before,  giving  no  hint  of  the 
direction  from  which  any  change  would  come,  the 
closing  in  of  a  menace  from  all  sides. 

There  was  still  no  man  at  the  helm.  The  im- 
mobility of  all  things  was  perfect.  If  the  air  had 
turned  black,  the  sea,  for  all  I  knew,  might  have 
turned  solid.  It  was  no  good  looking  in  any  di- 
rection, watching  for  any  sign,  speculating  upon 
the  nearness  of  the  moment.  When  the  time  came 
the  blackness  would  overwhelm  silently  the  bit  of 
starlight  falling  upon  the  ship,  and  the  end  of  all 
things  would  come  without  a  sigh,  stir,  or  murmur 
of  any  kind,  and  all  our  hearts  would  cease  to  beat 
like  run-down  clocks. 

It  was  impossible  to  shake  off  that  sense  of 
finality.  The  quietness  that  came  over  me  was 
like  a  foretaste  of  annihilation.  It  gave  me  a  sort 
of  comfort,  as  though  my  soul  had  become  suddenly 
reconciled  to  an  eternity  of  blind  stillness. 

The  seaman's  instinct  alone  survived  whole  in 
my  moral  dissolution.     I  descended  the  ladder  to 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  161 

the  quarter-deck.  The  starlight  seemed  to  die  out 
before  reaching  that  spot,  but  when  I  asked 
quietly:  "Are  you  there,  men? "  my  eyes  made  out 
shadow  forms  starting  up  around  me,  very  few, 
very  indistinct;  and  a  voice  spoke:  "All  here,  sir." 
Another  amended  anxiously : 

"All  that  are  any  good  for  anything,  sir." 

Both  voices  were  very  quiet  and  unringing;  with- 
out any  special  character  of  readiness  or  discour- 
agement.    Very  matter-of-fact  voices. 

"We  must  try  to  haul  this  mainsail  close  up,"  I 
said. 

The  shadows  swayed  away  from  me  without  a 
word.  Those  men  were  the  ghosts  of  themselves, 
and  their  weight  on  a  rope  could  be  no  more  than 
the  weight  of  a  bunch  of  ghosts.  Indeed,  if  ever  a 
sail  was  hauled  up  by  sheer  spiritual  strength  it 
must  have  been  that  sail,  for,  properly  speaking, 
there  was  not  muscle  enough  for  the  task  in  the 
whole  ship  let  alone  the  miserable  lot  of  us  on  deck. 
Of  course,  I  took  the  lead  in  the  work  myself. 
They  wandered  feebly  after  me  from  rope  to  rope, 
stumbling  and  panting.  They  toiled  like  Titans. 
We  were  half-an-hour  at  it  at  least,  and  all  the  time 
the  black  universe  made  no  sound.  When  the  last 
leech-line  was  made  fast,  my  eyes,  accustomed  to 


162  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

the  darkness,  made  out  the  shapes  of  exhausted 
men  drooping  over  the  rails,  collapsed  on  hatches. 
One  hung  over  the  after-capstan,  sobbing  for 
breath,  and  I  stood  amongst  them  like  a  tower  of 
strength,  impervious  to  disease  and  feeling  only  the 
sickness  of  my  soul.  I  waited  for  some  time  fight- 
ing against  the  weight  of  my  sins,  against  my  sense 
of  un worthiness,  and  then  I  said: 

"Now,  men,  we'll  go  aft  and  square  the  mainyard- 
That's  about  all  we  can  do  for  the  ship ;  and  for  tb' 
rest  she  must  take  her  chance." 


VI 

As  WE  all  went  up  it  occurred  to  me  that  there 
ought  to  be  a  man  at  the  helm.  I  raised  my  voice 
not  much  above  a  whisper,  and,  noiselessly,  an  un- 
complaining spirit  in  a  fever- wasted  body  appeared 
in  the  light  aft,  the  head  with  hollow  eyes  illumi- 
nated against  the  blackness  which  had  swallowed 
up  our  world — and  the  universe.  The  bared  fore- 
arm extended  over  the  upper  spokes  seemed  to 
shine  with  a  light  of  its  own. 

I  murmured  to  that  luminous  appearance: 

"Keep  the  helm  right  amidships." 

It  answered  in  a  tone  of  patient  suffering: 

"Right  amidships,  sir." 

Then  I  descended  to  the  quarter-deck.  It  was 
impossible  to  tell  whence  the  blow  would  come.  To 
look  round  the  ship  was  to  look  into  a  bottomless, 
black  pit.  The  eye  lost  itself  in  inconceivable 
depths. 

I  wanted  to  ascertain  whether  the  ropes  had  been 
picked  up  off  the  deck.  One  could  only  do  that  by 
feeling  with  one's  feet.     In  my  cautious  progress  I 

J63 


164  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

came  against  a  man  in  whom  I  recognized 
Ransome.  He  possessed  an  unimpaired  physical 
solidity  which  was  manifest  to  me  at  the  contact. 
He  was  leaning  against  the  quarter-deck  capstan 
and  kept  silent.  It  was  hke  a  revelation.  He  was 
the  collapsed  figure  sobbing  for  breath  I  had  no- 
ticed before  we  went  on  the  poop. 

"You  have  been  helping  with  the  mainsail!"  I 
exclaimed  in  a  low  tone. 

"Yes,  sir,"  sounded  his  quiet  voice. 

"Man!  WTiat  were  you  thinking  of.'  You 
mustn't  do  that  sort  of  thing." 

After  a  pause  he  assented:  "I  suppose  I 
mustn't."  Then  after  another  short  silence  he 
added:  "I  am  all  right  now,"  quickly,  between  the 
tell-tale  gasps. 

I  could  neither  hear  nor  see  anybody  else;  but 
when  I  spoke  up,  answering  sad  murmurs  filled  the 
quarter-deck,  and  its  shadows  seemed  to  shift  here 
and  there.  I  ordered  all  the  halyards  laid  down  on 
deck  clear  for  running. 

"I'll  see  to  that,  sir,"  volunteered  Ransome  in 
his  natural,  pleasant  tone,  which  comforted  one 
and  aroused  one's  compassion,  too,  somehow. 

That  man  ought  to  have  been  in  his  bed,  resting, 
and  my  plain  duty  was  to  send  him  there.     But 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  165 

perhaps  he  would  not  have  obeyed  me;  I  had  not 
the  strength  of  mind  to  try.     All  1  said  was: 

"Go  about  it  quietly,  Ransome." 

Returning  on  the  poop  I  approached  Gambril. 
His  face,  set  with  hollow  shadows  in  the  hght, 
looked  awful,  finally  silenced.  I  asked  him  how 
he  felt,  but  hardly  expected  an  answer.  There- 
fore, I  was  astonished  at  his  comparative  loquac- 
ity. 

"Them  shakes  leaves  me  as  weak  as  a  kitten, 
sir,"  he  said,  preserving  finely  that  air  of  uncon- 
sciousness as  to  anything  but  his  business  a  helms- 
man should  never  lose.  "And  before  I  can  pick 
up  my  strength  that  there  hot  fit  comes  along  and 
knocks  me  over  again." 

He  sighed.  There  was  no  reproach  in  his  tone, 
but  the  bare  words  were  enough  to  give  me  a  hor- 
rible pang  of  self-reproach.  It  held  me  dumb  for  a 
time.  When  the  tormenting  sensation  had  passed 
off  I  asked : 

"Do  you  feel  strong  enough  to  prevent  the  rud- 
der taking  charge  if  she  gets  stern  way  on  her.''  It 
wouldn't  do  to  get  something  smashed  about  the 
steering-gear  now.  We've  enough  difficulties  to 
cope  with  as  it  is." 

He  answered  with  just  a  shade  of  weariness  that 


166  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

he  was  strong  enough  to  hang  on.  He  could 
promise  me  that  she  shouldn't  take  the  wheel  out 
of  his  hands.     More  he  couldn't  say. 

At  that  moment  Ransome  appeared  quite  close 
to  me,  stepping  out  of  the  darkness  into  visibility 
suddenly,  as  if  just  created  with  his  composed  face 
and  pleasant  voice. 

Every  rope  on  deck,  he  said,  was  laid  down  clear 
for  running,  as  far  as  one  could  make  certain 
by  feeling.  It  was  impossible  to  see  anything. 
Frenchy  had  stationed  himself  forward.  He  said 
he  had  a  jump  or  two  left  in  him  yet. 

Here  a  faint  smile  altered  for  an  instant  the 
clear,  firm  design  of  Ransome's  hps.  With  his 
serious  clear,  gray  eyes,  his  serene  temperament — 
he  was  a  priceless  man  altogether.  Soul  as  firm 
as  the  muscles  of  his  body. 

He  was  the  only  man  on  board  (except  me,  but  I 
had  to  preserve  my  liberty  of  movement)  who  had 
a  sufficiency  of  muscular  strength  to  trust  to.  For 
a  moment  I  thought  I  had  better  ask  him  to  take 
the  wheel.  But  the  dreadful  knowledge  of  the 
enemy  he  had  to  carry  about  him  made  me  hesi- 
tate. In  my  ignorance  of  physiology  it  occurred 
to  me  that  he  might  die  suddenly,  from  excitement, 
at  a  critical  moment. 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  167 

While  this  gruesome  fear  restrained  the  ready 
words  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue,  Ransome  stepped 
back  two  paces  and  vanished  from  my  sight. 

At  once  an  uneasiness  possessed  me,  as  if  some 
support  had  been  withdrawn,  I  moved  forward, 
too,  outside  the  circle  of  light,  into  the  darkness 
that  stood  in  front  of  me  like  a  wall.  In  one  stride 
I  penetrated  it.  Such  must  have  been  the  dark- 
ness before  creation.  It  had  closed  behind  me.  I 
knew  I  was  invisible  to  the  man  at  the  helm. 
Neither  could  I  see  anything.  He  was  alone,  I  was 
alone,  every  man  was  alone  where  he  stood.  And 
every  form  was  gone,  too,  spar,  sail,  fittings,  rails; 
everything  was  blotted  out  in  the  dreadful  smooth- 
ness of  that  absolute  night. 

A  flash  of  lightning  would  have  been  a  relief — I 
mean  physically.  I  would  have  prayed  for  it  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  my  shrinking  apprehension  of  the 
thunder.  In  the  tension  of  silence  I  was  suffering 
from  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  first  crash  must  turn 
me  into  dust. 

And  thunder  was,  most  likely,  what  would  hap- 
pen next.  Stiff  all  over  and  hardly  breathing, 
I  waited  with  a  horribly  strained  expectation. 
Nothing  happened.  It  was  maddening,  but  a  dull, 
growing  ache  in  the  lower  part  of  my  face  made  me 


168  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

aware  that  I  had  been  grinding  my  teeth  madly 
enough,  for  God  knows  how  long. 

It's  extraordinary  I  should  not  have  heard  my- 
self doing  it;  but  I  hadn't.  By  an  effort  which 
absorbed  all  my  faculties  I  managed  to  keep  my 
jaw  still.  It  required  much  attention,  and  while 
thus  engaged  I  became  bothered  by  curious,  ir- 
regidar  sounds  of  faint  tapping  on  the  deck.  They 
could  be  heard  single,  in  pairs,  in  groups.  While 
I  wondered  at  this  mysterious  devilry,  I  received 
a  slight  blow  under  the  left  eye  and  felt  an  enor- 
mous tear  run  down  my  cheek.  Raindrops. 
Enormous.  Forerunners  of  something.  Tap.  Tap. 
Tap.     .     .     . 

I  turned  about,  and,  addressing  Gambrel 
earnestly,  entreated  him  to  "hang  on  to  the  wheel." 
But  I  could  hardly  speak  from  emotion.  The  fatal 
moment  had  come.  I  held  my  breath.  The  tap- 
ping had  stopped  as  unexpectedly  as  it  had  begim, 
and  there  was  a  renewed  moment  of  intolerable  sus- 
pense; something  like  an  additional  turn  of  the 
racldng  screw.  I  don't  suppose  I  would  have  ever 
screamed,  but  I  remember  my  conviction  that 
there  was  nothing  else  for  it  but  to  scream. 

Suddenly — how  am  I  to  convey  it?  Well,  sud- 
denlv  the  darkness  turned  into  water.    This  is  the 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  I6d 

only  suitable  figure.  A  heavy  shower,  a  down- 
pour, comes  along,  making  a  noise.  You  hear  its 
approach  on  the  sea,  in  the  air,  too,  I  verily  believe. 
But  this  was  different.  With  no  preliminary 
whisper  or  rustle,  without  a  splash,  and  even  with- 
out the  ghost  of  impact,  I  became  instantaneously 
soaked  to  the  skin.  Not  a  very  difficult  matter, 
since  I  was  wearing  only  my  sleeping  suit.  My 
hair  got  full  of  water  in  an  instant,  water  streamed 
on  my  skin,  it  filled  my  nose,  my  ears,  my  eyes. 
In  a  fraction  of  a  second  I  swallowed  quite  a  lot 
of  it. 

As  to  Gambril,  he  was  fairly  choked.  He 
coughed  pitifully,  the  broken  cough  of  a  sick  man; 
and  I  beheld  him  as  one  sees  a  fish  in  an  aquarium 
by  the  light  of  an  electric  bulb,  an  elusive,  phos- 
phorescent shape.  Only  he  did  not  glide  away. 
But  something  else  happened.  Both  binnacle- 
lamps  went  out.  I  suppose  the  water  forced  itself 
into  them,  though  I  wouldn't  have  thought  that 
possible,  for  they  fitted  into  the  cowl  perfectly. 

The  last  gleam  of  light  in  the  universe  had  gone, 
pursued  by  a  low  exclamation  of  dismay  from 
Gambril.  I  groped  for  him  and  seized  his  arm> 
How  startlingly  wasted  it  was. 

"Never  mind,"  I  said.     "You  don't  want  the 


170  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

light.  All  you  need  to  do  is  to  keep  the  wind, 
when  it  comes,  at  the  back  of  your  head.  You 
understand.''" 

"Aye,  aye,  sir.  .  .  .  But  I  should  like  to  have 
a  light,"  he  added  nervously. 

All  that  time  the  ship  lay  as  steady  as  a  rock. 
The  noise  of  the  water  pouring  off  the  sails  and 
spars,  flowing  over  the  break  of  the  poop,  had 
stopped  short.  The  poop  scuppers  gurgled  and 
sobbed  for  a  Httle  while  longer,  and  then  perfect 
silence,  joined  to  perfect  immobility,  proclaimed 
the  yet  unbroken  spell  of  our  helplessness,  poised 
on  the  edge  of  some  violent  issue,  lurking  in  the 
dark. 

I  started  forward  restlessly.  I  did  not  need  my 
sight  to  pace  the  poop  of  my  ill-starred  first  com- 
mand wath  perfect  assurance.  Every  square  foot 
of  her  decks  was  impressed  indelibly  on  my  brain, 
to  the  very  grain  and  knots  of  the  planks.  Yet,  all 
of  a  sudden,  I  fell  clean  over  something,  landing 
full  length  on  my  hands  and  face. 

It  was  something  big  and  alive.  Not  a  dog — 
more  Uke  a  sheep,  rather.  But  there  were  no 
animals  in  the  ship.  How  could  an  animal.  .  .  . 
It  was  an  added  and  fantastic  horror  which  I  could 
not  resist.     The  hair  of  my  head  stirred  even  as  I 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  171 

picked  myself  up,  awfully  scared;  not  as  a  man  is 
scared  while  his  judgment,  his  reason  still  try  to 
resist,  but  completely,  boundlessly,  and,  as  it  were, 
innocently  scared — like  a  little  child. 

I  could  see  It — that  Thing!  The  darkness,  of 
which  so  much  had  just  turned  into  water,  had 
thinned  down  a  little.  There  It  was !  But  I  did  not 
hit  upon  the  notion  of  Mr.  Burns  issuing  out  of  the 
companion  on  all  fours  till  he  attempted  to  stand 
up,  and  even  then  the  idea  of  a  bear  crossed  my 
mind  first. 

He  growled  like  one  when  I  seized  him  round  the 
body.  He  had  buttoned  himself  up  into  an  enor- 
mous winter  overcoat  of  some  woolly  material,  the 
weight  of  which  was  too  much  for  his  reduced  state. 
1  could  hardly  feel  the  incredibly  thin  lath  of  his 
body,  lost  within  the  thick  stuff,  but  his  growl  had 
depth  and  substance :  Confounded  dump  ship  with 
a  craven,  tiptoeing  crowd.  Why  couldn't  they 
stamp  and  go  wdth  a  brace  .^^  Wasn't  there  one  God- 
forsaken lubber  in  the  lot  fit  to  raise  a  yell  on  a 
rope? 

"Skulking's  no  good,  sir,"  he  attacked  me 
directly.  "You  can't  slink  past  the  old  murderous 
ruffian.  It  isn't  the  way.  You  must  go  for  him 
boldly — as  I  did.       Boldness  is  what  you  want. 


172  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

Show  him  that  you  don't  care  for  any  of  his 
damned  tricks.     Kick  up  a  jollj^  old  row." 

"Good  God,  Mr.  Burns,"  I  said  angrily. 
"What  on  earth  are  you  up  to?  What  do  you 
mean  by  coming  up  on  deck  in  this  state?" 

"Just  that!  Boldness.  The  only  way  to  scare 
the  old  bullying  rascal." 

I  pushed  him,  still  growhng,  against  the  rail. 
"Hold  on  to  it,"  I  said  roughly.  I  did  not  know 
what  to  do  with  him.  I  left  him  in  a  hurry,  to  go 
to  Gambril,  who  had  called  faintly  that  he  beheved 
there  was  some  wind  aloft.  Indeed,  my  own  ears 
had  caught  a  feeble  flutter  of  wet  canvas,  high  up 
overhead,  the  jingle  of  a  slack  chain  sheet.    .    .    . 

These  were  eerie,  disturbing,  alarming  sounds  in 
the  dead  stillness  of  the  air  around  me.  All  the 
instances  I  had  heard  of  topmasts  being  whipped 
out  of  a  ship  while  there  was  not  wind  enough  on 
her  deck  to  blow  out  a  match  rushed  into  my 
memory. 

"I  can't  see  the  upper  sails,  sir,"  declared 
Gambril  shakily. 

"Don't  move  the  helm.  You'll  be  all  right,"  I 
said  confidently. 

The  poor  man's  nerves  were  gone.  IVIine  were 
not  in  much  better  case.     It  was  the  moment  o| 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  173 

breaking  strain  and  was  relieved  by  the  abrupt 
sensation  of  the  ship  moving  forward  as  if  of  her- 
self under  my  feet.  I  heard  plainly  the  soughing 
of  the  wind  aloft,  the  low  cracks  of  the  upper  spars 
taking  the  strain,  long  before  I  could  feel  the  least 
draught  on  my  face  turned  aft,  anxious  and  sight- 
less hke  the  face  of  a  blind  man. 

Suddenly  a  louder-sounding  note  filled  our  ears, 
the  darkness  started  streaming  against  our  bodies, 
chilling  them  exceedingly.  Both  of  us,  Gambril 
and  I,  shivered  violently  in  our  clinging,  soaked 
garments  of  thin  cotton.     I  said  to  him : 

"You  are  all  right  now,  my  man.  All  you've  got 
to  do  is  to  keep  the  wind  at  the  back  of  your  head. 
Surely  you  are  up  to  that.  A  child  could  steer  this 
ship  in  smooth  water." 

He  muttered:  "Aye!  A  healthy  child."  And  I 
felt  ashamed  of  having  been  passed  over  by  the 
fever  which  had  been  preying  on  every  man's 
strength  but  mine,  in  order  that  my  remorse  might 
be  the  more  bitter,  the  feeling  of  unworthiness  more 
poignant,  and  the  sense  of  responsibility  heavier  to 
bear. 

The  ship  had  gathered  great  way  on  her  almost 
at  once  on  the  calm  water.  I  felt  her  slipping 
through  it  with  no  other  noise  but  a  mysterious 


174  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

rustle  alongside.  Otherwise,  she  had  no  motion  at 
all,  neither  lift  nor  roll.  It  was  a  disheartening 
steadiness  which  had  lasted  for  eighteen  days 
now;  for  never,  never  had  we  had  wind  enough  in 
that  time  to  raise  the  slightest  run  of  the  sea.  The 
breeze  freshened  suddenly.  I  thought  it  was  high 
time  to  get  Mr.  Burns  off  the  deck.  He  worried 
me.  I  looked  upon  him  as  a  lunatic  who  would  be 
very  likely  to  start  roaming  over  the  ship  and  break 
a  limb  or  fall  overboard. 

I  was  truly  glad  to  find  he  had  remained  holding 
on  where  I  had  left  him,  sensibly  enough.  He  was, 
however,  muttering  to  himself  ominously. 

This  was  discouraging.  I  remarked  in  a  matter- 
of-fact  tone : 

"  We  have  never  had  so  much  wind  as  this  since 
we  left  the  roads." 

"There's  some  heart  in  it,  too,"  he  growled 
judiciously.  It  was  a  remark  of  a  perfectly  sane 
seaman.  But  he  added  immediately:  "It  was 
about  time  I  should  come  on  deck.  I've  been 
nursing  my  strength  for  this — ^just  for  this.  Do 
you  see  it,  sir.?^" 

I  said  I  did,  and  proceeded  to  hint  that  it  would 
be  advisable  for  him  to  go  below  now  and  take  a 
rest. 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  175 

His  answer  was  an  indignant  "  Go  below !  Not  if 
I  know  it,  sir." 

Very  cheerful !  He  was  a  horrible  nuisance.  And 
all  at  once  he  started  to  argue.  I  could  feel  his 
crazy  excitement  in  the  dark. 

"  You  don't  know  how  to  go  about  it,  sir.  How 
could  you?  All  this  whispering  and  tiptoeing  is  no 
good.  You  can't  hope  to  shnk  past  a  cunning, 
wide-awake,  evil  brute  like  he  was.  You  never 
heard  him  talk.  Enough  to  make  yom*  hair  stand 
on  end.  No!  No!  He  wasn't  mad.  He  was  no 
more  mad  than  I  am.  He  was  just  downright 
wicked.  Wicked  so  as  to  frighten  most  people.  I 
will  tell  you  what  he  was.  He  was  nothing  less 
than  a  thief  and  a  murderer  at  heart.  And  do  you 
think  he's  any  different  now  because  he's  dead.f^ 
Not  he !  His  carcass  lies  a  hundred  fathom  under, 
but  he's  just  the  same  ...  in  latitude  8°  20' 
north." 

He  snorted  defiantly.  I  noted  with  weary  resig- 
nation that  the  breeze  had  got  lighter  while  he 
raved.     He  was  at  it  again. 

"I  ought  to  have  thrown  the  beggar  out  of  the 
ship  over  the  rail  like  a  dog.  It  was  only  on  ac- 
count of  the  men.  .  .  .  Fancy  having  to  read  the 
Burial  Service  over  a  brute  like  that!    .    .    .    *Our 


176  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

departed  brother'  ...  I  could  have  laughed. 
That  was  what  he  couldn't  bear.  I  suppose  I  am 
the  only  man  that  ever  stood  up  to  laugh  at  him. 
When  he  got  sick  it  used  to  scare  that 
brother.  .  .  .  Brother.  .  .  .  Departed. 
.     .     .     Sooner  call  a  shark  brother." 

The  breeze  had  let  go  so  suddenly  that  the  way 
of  the  ship  brought  the  wet  sails  heavily  against  the 
mast.  The  spell  of  deadly  stillness  had  caught 
us  up  again.     There  seemed  to  be  no  escape. 

"Hallo!"  exclaimed  ]\Ir.  Burns  in  a  startled 
voice.     "Calm  again!" 

I  addressed  him  as  though  he  had  been  sane. 

"This  is  the  sort  of  thing  we've  been  having  for 
seventeen  days,  Mr.  Burns,"  I  said  with  intense 
bitterness.  "A  puff,  then  a  calm,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment, you'll  see,  she'll  be  swinging  on  her  heel  with 
her  head  away  from  her  course  to  the  devil  some- 
where." 

He  caught  at  the  word.  "The  old  dodging 
Devil,"  he  screamed  piercingly  and  burst  into  such 
a  loud  laugh  as  I  had  never  heard  before.  It  was  a 
provoking,  mocking  peal,  with  a  hair-raising, 
screeching  over-note  of  defiance.  I  stepped  back, 
utterly  confounded. 

Instantly  there  was  a  stir  on  the  quarter-deck', 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  177 

murmurs  of  dismay,  A  distressed  voice  cried  out 
m  the  dark  below  us:  "Who's  that  gone  crazy, 
now?" 

Perhaps  they  thought  it  was  their  captain? 
Rush  is  not  the  word  that  could  be  applied  to  the 
utmost  speed  the  poor  fellows  were  up  to;  but  in 
an  amazing  short  time  every  man  in  the  ship  able 
to  walk  upright  had  found  his  way  on  to  that  poop. 

I  shouted  to  them :  "  It's  the  mate.  Lay  hold  of 
him  a  couple  of  you.     .     .     ." 

I  expected  this  performance  to  end  in  a  ghastly 
sort  of  fight.  But  Mr.  Burns  cut  his  derisive 
screeching  dead  short  and  turned  upon  them 
fiercely,  yelling: 

"Aha!  Dog-gone  ye!  You've  found  your 
tongues — have  ye?  I  thought  you  were  dumb. 
WeD,  then — laugh !  Laugh— I  tell  you.  Now  then 
— all  together.     One,  two,  three — laugh!" 

A  moment  of  silence  ensued,  of  silence  so  pro- 
found that  you  could  have  heard  a  pin  drop  on  the 
deck.  Then  Ransome's  unperturbed  voice  uttered 
pleasantly  the  words: 

"I  think  he  has  fainted,  sir "     The  little 

motionless  knot  of  men  stirred,  with  low  murmurs 
of  relief.  "I've  got  him  under  the  arms.  Get 
hold  of  his  legs,  some  one." 


178  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

Yes.  It  was  a  relief.  He  was  silenced  for  a 
time — for  a  time.  I  could  not  have  stood  another 
peal  of  that  insane  screeching.  I  was  sure  of  it; 
and  just  then  Gambril,  the  austere Gambril,  treated 
us  to  another  vocal  performance.  He  began  to 
sing  out  for  relief.  His  voice  wailed  pitifully  in 
the  darkness:  "Come  aft  somebody!  I  can't 
stand  this.  Here  she'll  be  off  again  directly  and  I 
can't.     .     .     ." 

I  dashed  aft  myself  meeting  on  my  way  a  hard 
gust  of  wdnd  whose  approach  Gambril's  ear  had 
detected  from  afar  and  which  filled  the  sails  on  the 
main  in  a  series  of  muffled  reports  mingled  with  the 
low  plaint  of  the  spars.  I  was  just  in  time  to  seize 
the  wheel  while  Frenchy  who  had  followed  me 
caught  up  the  collapsing  Gambril.  He  hauled  him 
out  of  the  way,  admonished  him  to  lie  still  where  he 
was,  and  then  stepped  up  to  reheve  me,  asking 
calmly : 

"How  am  I  to  steer  her,  sir.''" 

"  Dead  before  it  for  the  present.  I'U  get  you  a 
light  in  a  moment." 

But  going  forward  I  met  Ransome  bringing  up 
the  spare  binnacle  lamp.  That  man  noticed 
everything,  attended  to  everything,  shed  comfort 
around  him  as  he  moved.     As  he  passed  me  he  re- 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  179 

marked  in  a  soothing  tone  that  the  stars  were  com- 
ing out.  They  were.  The  breeze  was  sweeping 
clear  the  sooty  sky,  breaking  through  the  indolent 
silence  of  the  sea. 

The  barrier  of  awful  stillness  which  had  encom- 
passed us  for  so  many  days  as  though  we  had  been 
accursed,  was  broken.  I  felt  that.  I  let  myself 
fall  on  to  the  skylight  seat.  A  faint  white  ridge  of 
foam,  thin,  very  thin,  broke  alongside.  The  first  for 
ages — for  ages.  I  could  have  cheered,  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  the  sense  of  guilt  which  clung  to  all 
my  thoughts  secretly.     Ransome  stood  before  me. 

"What  about  the  mate,"  I  asked  anxiously. 
"Still  miconscious?" 

"Well,  sir — it's  funny,"  Ransome  was  evidently 
puzzled.  "He  hasn't  spoken  a  word^  and  his  eyes 
are  shut.  But  it  looks  to  me  more  like  sound  sleep 
than  anything  else." 

I  accepted  this  view  as  the  least  troublesome  of 
any,  or  at  any  rate,  least  disturbing.  Dead  faint 
or  deep  slumber,  Mr.  Burns  had  to  be  left  to  him- 
self for  the  present,  Ransome  remarked  sud- 
denly. 

"I  believe  you  want  a  coat,  sir." 

"I  believe  I  do,"  I  sighed  out. 

But  I  did  not  move.     What  I  felt  I  wanted  were 


180  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

new  limbs.  My  arms  and  legs  seemed  utterly  use- 
less, fairly  worn  out.  They  didn't  even  ache.  But 
I  stood  up  all  the  same  to  put  on  the  coat  when 
Ransome  brought  it  up.  And  when  he  suggested 
that  he  had  better  now  "take  Gambril  forward,"  I 
said: 

"All  right.  I'll  help  you  to  get  him  down  on  the 
main  deck." 

I  found  that  I  was  quite  able  to  help,  too.  We 
raised  Gambril  up  between  us.  He  tried  to  help 
himself  along  like  a  man  but  all  the  time  he  was  in- 
quiring piteously: 

"  You  won't  let  me  go  wfc  3n  we  come  to  the  lad- 
der? You  won't  let  me  go  when  we  come  to  the 
ladder  .f* " 

The  breeze  kept  on  freshening  and  blew  true, 
true  to  a  hair.  At  daylight  by  careful  manipula- 
tion of  the  helm  we  got  the  foreyards  to  run  square 
by  themselves  (the  water  keeping  smooth)  and 
then  went  about  hauling  the  ropes  tight.  Of  the 
four  men  I  had  with  me  at  night,  I  could  see  now 
only  two.  I  didn't  inquire  as  to  the  others.  They, 
had  given  in.     For  a  time  only  I  hoped. 

Our  various  tasks  forward  occupied  us  for  hours, 
the  two  men  with  me  moved  so  slow  and  had  to 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  181 

rest  so  often.  One  of  them  remarked  that  '*  every 
blamed  thing  in  the  ship  felt  about  a  hundred  times 
heavier  than  its  proper  weight."  This  was  the 
only  complaint  uttered.  I  don't  know  what  we 
should  have  done  without  Ransome.  He  worked 
with  us,  silent,  too,  with  a  little  smile  frozen  on  his 
lips.  From  time  to  time  I  murmured  to  him: 
"Go  steady" — "Take  it  easy,  Ransome" — and  re- 
ceived a  quick  glance  in  reply. 

Wlien  we  had  done  all  we  could  do  to  make 
things  safe,  he  disappeared  into  his  galley.  Some 
time  afterward,  going  forward  for  a  look  round,  I 
caught  sight  of  him  through  the  open  door.  He 
sat  upright  on  the  locker  in  front  of  the  stove,  with 
his  head  leaning  back  against  the  bulkhead.  His 
eyes  were  closed;  his  capable  hands  held  open  the 
front  of  his  thin  cotton  shirt  baring  tragically 
his  powerful  chest,  which  heaved  in  painful  and 
laboured  gasps.     He  didn't  hear  me. 

I  retreated  quietly  and  went  straight  on  to  the 
poop  to  relieve  Frenchy,  who  by  that  time  was  be- 
ginning to  look  very  sick.  He  gave  me  the  course 
with  great  formality  and  tried  to  go  off  with  a 
jaimty  step,  but  reeled  widely  twice  before  getting 
out  of  my  sight. 

And  then  I  remained  all  alone  aft,  steering  my 


182  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

ship,  which  ran  before  the  wind  with  a  buoyant  lift 
now  and  then,  and  even  rolhng  a  Httle.  Presently 
Ransome  appeared  before  me  with  a  tray.  The 
sight  of  food  made  me  ravenous  all  at  once.  He 
took  the  wheel  while  I  sat  down  on  the  after  grating 
to  eat  my  breakfast. 

"This  breeze  seems  to  have  done  for  our  crowd," 
he  murmured.     "  It  just  laid  them  low —  all  hands." 

"Yes,"  I  said.  "I  suppose  you  and  I  are  the 
only  two  fit  men  in  the  ship." 

"  Frenchy  says  there's  still  a  jump  left  in  him.  I 
don't  know.  It  can't  be  much,"  continued  Ran- 
some with  his  wistful  smile.  Good  httle  man  that. 
But  suppose,  sir,  that  this  wind  flies  round  when 
we  are  close  to  the  land — what  are  we  going  to  do 
with  her.?" 

"If  the  wind  shifts  round  heavily  after  we  close 
in  with  the  land  she  will  either  run  ashore  or  get 
dismasted  or  both.  We  won't  be  able  to  do  any- 
thing with  her.  She's  running  away  wath  us  now. 
All  we  can  do  is  to  steer  her.  She's  a  ship  without  a 
crew." 

"  Yes.  All  laid  low,"  repeated  Ransome  quietly. 
"I  do  give  them  a  look-in  forward  every  now  and 
then,  but  it's  precious  little  I  can  do  for  them." 

"I,  and  the  ship,  and  every  one  on  board  of  her, 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  183 

are  very  much  indebted  to  you,  Ransome,"  I  said 
warmly. 

He  made  as  though  he  had  not  heard  me,  and 
steered  in  silence  till  I  was  ready  to  reheve  him.  He 
surrendered  the  wheel,  picked  up  the  tray,  and  for  a 
parting  shot  informed  me  that  Mr.  Burns  was  awake 
and  seemed  to  have  a  mind  to  come  up  on  deck. 

"I  don't  know  how  to  prevent  him,  sir.  I  can't 
very  well  stop  down  below  all  the  time." 

It  was  clear  that  he  couldn't.  And  sure  enough 
Mr.  Burns  came  on  deck  dragging  himself  painfully 
aft  in  his  enormous  overcoat.  I  beheld  him  with  a 
natural  dread.  To  have  him  around  and  raving 
about  the  wiles  of  a  dead  man  while  I  had  to  steer  a 
wildly  rushing  ship  full  of  dying  men  was  a  rather 
dreadful  prospect. 

But  his  first  remarks  were  quite  sensible  in  mean- 
ing and  tone.  Apparently  he  had  no  recollection 
of  the  night  scene.  And  if  he  had  he  didn't  betray 
himself  once.  Neither  did  he  talk  very  much.  He 
sat  on  the  skylight  looking  desperately  ill  at  first, 
but  that  strong  breeze,  before  which  the  last  rem- 
nant of  my  crew  had  wilted  down,  seemed  to  blow  a 
fresh  stock  of  vigour  into  his  frame  with  every  gust. 
One  could  almost  see  the  process. 

By  way  of  sanity  test  I  alluded  on  purpose  to  the 


184  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

late  captain.  I  was  delighted  to  find  that  Mr. 
Bums  did  not  display  undue  interest  in  the  sub- 
ject. He  ran  over  the  old  tale  of  that  savage 
ruffian's  iniquities  with  a  certain  vindictive  gusto 
and  then  concluded  unexpectedly: 

"I  do  believe,  sir,  that  his  brain  began  to  go  a 
year  or  more  before  he  died." 

A  wonderful  recovery.  I  could  hardly  spare  it 
as  much  admiration  as  it  deserved,  for  I  had  to  give 
all  my  mind  to  the  steering. 

In  comparison  with  the  hopeless  languour  of  the 
preceding  days  this  was  dizzy  speed.  Two  ridges 
of  foam  streamed  from  the  ship's  bows;  the  wind 
sang  in  a  strenuous  note  which  under  other  cir- 
cumstances would  have  expressed  to  me  all  the  joy 
of  life.  WTienever  the  hauled-up  mainsail  started 
trying  to  slat  and  bang  itself  to  pieces  in  its  gear, 
Mr.  Bums  would  look  at  me  apprehensively. 

"What  would  you  have  me  to  do,  Mr.  Burns .'^ 
We  can  neither  furl  it  nor  set  it.  I  only  wish  the 
old  thing  would  thrash  itself  to  pieces  and  be  done 
with  it.     That  beastly  racket  confuses  me." 

Mr.  Burns  wrung  his  hands,  and  cried  out  sud- 
denly : 

"How  will  you  get  the  ship  into  harbour,  sir, 
without  men  to  handle  her.''" 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  185 

And  I  couldn't  tell  him. 

Well — it  did  get  done  about  forty  hours  after- 
ward. By  the  exorcising  virtue  of  Mr.  Bums' 
awful  laugh,  the  majicious  spectre  had  been  laid, 
the  evil  spell  broken,  the  curse  removed.  We  were 
now  in  the  hands  of  a  land  and  energetic  Provi- 
dence.    It  was  rushing  us  on.     .     .     . 

I  shall  never  forget  the  last  night,  dark,  windy, 
and  starry.  I  steered.  Mr.  Burns,  after  having 
obtained  from  me  a  solemn  promise  to  give  him  a 
kick  if  anything  happened,  went  frankly  to  sleep  ou 
the  deck  close  to  the  binnacle.  Convalescents 
need  sleep.  Ransome,  his  back  propped  against 
the  mizzen-mast  and  a  blanket  over  his  legs,  re- 
mained perfectly  still,  but  I  don't  suppose  he 
closed  his  eyes  for  a  moment.  That  embodiment 
of  jauntiness,  Frenchy,  still  under  the  delusion  that 
there  was  a  "jump"  left  in  him,  had  insisted  on 
joining  us;  but  mindful  of  discipline,  had  laid  him- 
self dov/n  as  far  on  the  forepart  of  the  poop  as  he 
could  get,  alongside  the  bucket-rack. 

And  I  steered,  too  tired  for  anxiety,  too  tired  for 
connected  thought.  I  had  moments  of  grim  ex- 
ultation and  then  my  heart  would  sinli  awfully 
at  the  thought  of  that  forecastle  at  the  other  end 
of  the  dark  deck,  full  of  fever-stricken  men — some 


180  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

of  tliem  dying.  By  my  fault.  But  never  mind. 
Remorse  must  wait.     I  had  to  steer. 

In  the  small  hours  the  breeze  weakened,  then 
failed  altogether.  About  five  it  returned,  gentle 
enough,  enabhng  us  to  head  for  the  roadstead. 
Daybreak  found  Mr.  Bums  sitting  wedged  up  with 
coils  of  rope  on  the  stern-grating,  and  from  the 
depths  of  his  overcoat  steering  the  ship  with  very 
wliite  bony  hands;  while  Ransome  and  I  rushed 
along  the  decks  letting  go  all  the  sheets  and  hal- 
liards by  the  rim.  We  dashed  next  up  on  to  the 
forecastle  head.  The  perspiration  of  labour  and 
sheer  nervousness  simply  poured  ofiP  our  heads  as 
we  toiled  to  get  the  anchors  cock-billed.  I  dared 
not  look  at  Ransome  as  we  worked  side  by  side. 
We  exchanged  curt  words ;  I  could  hear  him  panting 
close  to  me  and  I  avoided  turning  my  eyes  his  way 
for  fear  of  seeing  him  fall  down  and  expire  in  the 
act  of  putting  forth  his  strength — for  what.^*  In- 
deed for  some  distinct  ideal. 

The  consummate  seaman  in  him  was  aroused. 
He  needed  no  directions.  He  knew  what  to  do. 
Every  efiFort,  every  movement  was  an  act  of  con- 
sistent heroism.  It  was  not  for  me  to  look  at  a  man 
thus  inspired. 

At  last  all  was  ready  and  I  heard  him  say: 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  187 

"Hadn't  I  better  go  down  and  open  the  compres- 
sors now,  sir?" 

"Yes.     Do,"  I  said. 

And  even  then  I  did  not  glance  his  way.  After  a 
time  his  voice  came  up  from  the  main  deck. 

"When  you  like,  sir.  All  clear  on  the  windlass 
here." 

I  made  a  sign  to  Mr.  Burns  to  put  the  helm 
down  and  let  both  anchors  go  one  after  another, 
leaving  the  ship  to  take  as  much  cable  as  she 
wanted.  She  took  the  best  part  of  them  both  be- 
fore she  brought  up.  The  loose  sails  coming  aback 
ceased  their  maddening  racket  above  my  head.  A 
perfect  stillness  reigned  in  the  ship.  And  while  I 
stood  forward  feeling  a  little  giddy  in  that  sudden 
peace,  I  caught  faintly  a  moan  or  two  and  the  in- 
coherent mutterings  of  the  sick  in  the  forecastle. 

As  we  had  a  signal  for  medical  assistance  flying 
on  the  mizzen  it  is  a  fact  that  before  the  ship  was 
fairly  at  rest  three  steam  launches  from  various 
men-of-war  were  alongside;  and  at  least  five  naval 
surgeons  had  clambered  on  board.  They  stood  in 
a  knot  gazing  up  and  down  the  empty  main  deck, 
then  looked  aloft — where  not  a  man  could  be  seen, 
either. 

I  went  toward  them — a  solitary  figure,  in  a  blue 


188  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

and  gray  striped  sleeping  suit  and  a  pipe -clayed  cork 
helmet  on  its  head.  Their  disgust  was  extreme. 
They  had  expected  surgical  cases.  Each  one  had 
brought  his  carving  tools  with  him.  But  they  soon 
got  over  their  little  disappointment.  In  less  than 
five  minutes  one  of  the  steam  launches  was  rushing 
shoreward  to  order  a  big  boat  and  some  hospital 
people  for  the  removal  of  the  crew.  The  big 
steam  pinnace  went  off  to  her  ship  to  bring  over  a 
few  bluejackets  to  furl  my  sails  for  me. 

One  of  the  surgeons  had  remained  on  board.  He 
came  out  of  the  forecastle  looking  impenetrable, 
and  noticed  my  inquiring  gaze. 

"There's  nobody  dead  in  there,  if  that's  what 
you  want  to  know,"  he  said  dehberately.  Then 
added  in  a  tone  of  wonder:     "The  whole  crew!" 

"And  very  bad?" 

"And  very  bad,"  he  repeated.  His  eyes  were 
roaming  all  over  the  ship.  "Heavens!  What's 
that.?" 

"That,"  I  said,  glancing  aft,  "is  Mr.  Bums,  my 
chief  oflScer." 

Mr.  Burns  with  his  moribund  head  nodding  on 
the  stalk  of  his  lean  neck  was  a  sight  for  any  one 
to  exclaim  at.     The  surgeon  asked : 

"Is  he  going  to  the  hospital,  too.'* 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  189 

"Oh,  no,"  I  said  jocosely.  "Mr.  Burns  can't  go 
on  shore  till  the  mainmast  goes.  I  am  very  proud 
of  him.     He's  my  only  convalescent." 

"You  look "  began  the  doctor  staring  at  nae. 

But  I  interrupted  him  angrily : 

"I  am  not  ill." 

"No.     .     .     .     You  look  queer." 

"Well,  you  see,  I  have  been  seventeen  days  on 
deck." 

"Seventeen!    .    .    .    But  you  must  have  slept." 

"I  suppose  I  must  have.  I  don't  know.  But 
I'm  certain  that  I  didn't  sleep  for  the  last  forty 
hours." 

"Phew!  .  .  .  You  will  be  going  ashore  pres' 
enlly  I  suppose?" 

"As  soon  as  ever  I  can.  There's  no  end  of 
business  waiting  for  me  there." 

The  surgeon  released  my  hand,  which  he  had 
taken  while  we  talked,  pulled  out  his  pocket-book, 
wrote  in  it  rapidly,  tore  out  the  page  and  offered 
it  to  me. 

"I  strongly  advise  you  to  get  this  prescription 
made  up  for  yourself  ashore.  Unless  I  am  much 
mistaken  you  will  need  it  this  evening." 

"What  is  it,  then?"  I  asked  with  suspicion. 

"Sleeping    draught,"    answered    the    surgeon 


190  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

curtly;  and  moving  with  an  air  of  interest  toward 
IVIr.  Burns  he  engaged  him  in  conversation. 

As  I  went  below  to  dress  to  go  ashore,  Ransome 
followed  me.  He  begged  my  pardon;  he  wished, 
too,  to  be  sent  ashore  and  paid  oflF. 

I  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  He  was  waiting  for 
my  answer  with  an  air  of  anxiety. 

"You  don't  mean  to  leave  the  ship!"  I  cried 
out. 

"  I  do  really,  sir.  I  want  to  go  and  be  quiet  some- 
where.    Anywhere.     The  hospital  will  do." 

"But,  Ransome,"  I  said.  "I  hate  the  idea  of 
parting  with  you." 

"I  must  go,"  he  broke  in.  "I  have  a  right!" 
.  .  .  He  gasped  and  a  look  of  almost  savage  de- 
termination passed  over  his  face.  For  an  instant 
he  was  another  being.  And  I  saw  under  the  worth 
and  the  comeliness  of  the  man  the  humble  reality 
of  things.  Life  was  a  boon  to  him — this  precarious 
hard  life,  and  he  was  thoroughly  alarmed  about 
himself. 

"Of  course  I  shall  pay  you  off  if  you  wish  it,"  I 
hastened  to  say.  "Only  I  must  ask  you  to  remain 
on  board  till  this  afternoon.  I  can't  leave  Mr. 
BiuTis  absolutely  by  himself  in  the  ship  for  hours.'* 

He  softened  at  once  and  assured  me  with  a  smile 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  191 

and  in  his  natural  pleasant  voice  that  he  under- 
stood that  very  well. 

When  I  returned  on  deck  everything  was  ready 
for  the  removal  of  the  men.  It  was  the  last  ordeal 
of  that  episode  which  had  been  maturing  and  tem- 
pering my  character — though  I  did  not  know  it. 

It  was  awful.  They  passed  under  my  eyes  one 
after  another — each  of  them  an  embodied  reproach 
of  the  bitterest  kind,  till  I  felt  a  sort  of  revolt  wake 
up  in  me.  Poor  Frenchy  had  gone  suddenly  under. 
He  was  carried  past  me  insensible,  his  comic 
face  horribly  flushed  and  as  if  swollen,  breathing 
stertorously.  He  looked  more  like  Mr.  Punch  than 
ever;  a  disgracefully  intoxicated  Mr.  Punch. 

The  austere  Gambril,  on  the  contrary,  had  im- 
proved temporarily.  He  insisted  on  walking  on 
his  own  feet  to  the  rail — of  course  with  assistance 
on  each  side  of  him.  But  he  gave  way  to  a  sudden 
panic  at  the  moment  of  being  swung  over  the  side 
and  began  to  wail  pitifully: 

"Don't  let  them  drop  me,  sir.  Don't  let  them 
drop  me,  sir ! "  While  I  kept  on  shouting  to  him  in 
most  soothing  accents:  "All  right,  Gambril. 
They  won't !     They  won't ! " 

It  was  no  doubt  very  ridiculous.  The  blue- 
jackets on  our  deck  were  grinning  quietly,  while 


m  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

even  Ransome  himself  (much  to  the  fore  in  lending 
a  hand)  had  to  enlarge  his  wistful  smile  for  a  fleet- 
ing moment. 

I  left  for  the  shore  in  the  steam  pinnace,  and  on 
looking  back  beheld  Mr.  Burns  actually  standing 
up  by  the  taffrail,  still  in  his  enormous  woolly  over- 
coat. The  bright  sunlight  brought  out  his  weird- 
ness  amazingly.  He  looked  like  a  frightful  and 
elaborate  scarecrow  set  up  on  the  poop  of  a  death- 
stricken  ship,  set  up  to  keep  the  seabirds  from  the 
corpses. 

Our  story  had  got  about  already  in  town  and 
everybody  on  shore  was  most  kind.  The  Marine 
Office  let  me  off  the  port  dues,  and  as  there  hap- 
pened to  be  a  shipwrecked  crew  staying  in  the 
Home  I  had  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  as  many  men 
as  I  wanted.  But  when  I  inquired  if  I  could  see 
Captain  Elhs  for  a  moment  I  was  told  in  accents  of 
pity  for  my  ignorance  that  our  deputy-Neptune 
had  retired  and  gone  home  on  a  pension  about 
three  weeks  after  I  left  the  port.  So  I  suppose  that 
my  appointment  was  the  last  act,  outside  the 
daily  routine,  of  his  official  life. 

It  is  strange  how  on  coming  ashore  I  was  struck 
by  the  springy  step,  the  lively  eyes,  the  strong 
vitality  of  every  one  I  met.     It  impressed  me 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  193 

enormously.  And  amongst  those  I  met  there  was 
Captain  Giles,  of  course.  It  would  have  been  very 
extraordinary  if  I  had  not  met  him.  A  prolonged 
stroll  in  the  business  part  of  the  town  was  the 
regular  employment  of  all  his  mornings  when  he 
was  ashore. 

I  caught  the  glitter  of  the  gold  watch-chain 
across  his  chest  ever  so  far  away.  He  radiated 
benevolence. 

"What  is  it  I  hear.''"  he  queried  with  a  "kind 
uncle"  smile,  after  shaking  hands.  "Twenty -one 
days  from  Bangkok?" 

"Is  this  all  you've  heard.'*"  I  said.  "You  must 
come  to  tiffin  with  me.  I  want  you  to  know  ex- 
actly what  you  have  let  me  in  for." 

He  hesitated  for  almost  a  minute. 

"Well — I  will,"  he  said  condescendingly  at  last. 

We  turned  into  the  hotel.  I  found  to  my  sur- 
prise that  I  could  eat  quite  a  lot.  Then  over  the 
cleared  table-cloth  I  unfolded  to  Captain  Giles  the 
history  of  these  twenty  days  in  all  its  professional 
and  emotional  aspects,  while  he  smoked  patiently 
the  big  cigar  I  had  given  him. 

Then  he  observed  sagely: 

"You  must  feel  jolly  well  tired  by  this  time." 

"No,"  I  said.     "Not  tired.     But  I'll  tell  you. 


194  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

Captain  Giles,  how  I  feel.  I  feel  old.  And  I  must 
be.  All  of  YOU  on  shore  look  to  me  just  a  lot  of 
skittish  youngsters  that  have  never  kno^sTi  a  care 
in  the  world." 

He  didn't  smile.  He  looked  insufferably  ex- 
emplary.    He  declared : 

"That  will  pass.  But  you  do  look  older — it's  a 
fact." 

"Aha!"  I  said. 

"  No !  No !  The  truth  is  that  one  must  not  make 
too  much  of  anything  in  life,  good  or  bad." 

"Live  at  half -speed,"  I  murmured  perversely. 
"Not  everybody  can  do  that." 

"You'll  be  glad  enough  presently  if  you  can  keep 
going  even  at  that  rate,"  he  retorted  with  his  air  of 
conscious  virtue.  "And  there's  another  thing:  a 
man  should  stand  up  to  his  bad  luck,  to  his  mis- 
takes, to  his  conscience  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 
"VMiy — what  else  would  you  have  to  fight  against. " 

I  kept  sUent.  I  don't  know  what  he  saw  in  my 
face  but  he  asked  abruptly  : 

"Why — you  aren't  faint-hearted .''" 

"God  only  knows.  Captain  GUes,"  was  my  sin- 
cere answer. 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said  calmly.  "You  will 
learn  soon  how  not  to  be  faint-hearted.     A  man  has 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  195 

got  to  learn  everything — and  that's  what  so  many 
of  them  youngsters  don't  understand." 

"Well,  I  am  no  longer  a  youngster." 

"No,"  he  conceded.     "Are  you  leaving  soon?" 

"I  am  going  on  board  directly,"  I  said.  "I  shall 
pick  up  one  of  my  anchors  and  heave  in  to  half- 
cable  on  the  other  directly  my  new  crew  comes  on 
board  and  I  shall  be  off  at  daylight  to-morrow!" 

"You  will,"  grunted  Captain  Giles  approvingly. 
"That's  the  way.     You'll  do." 

"What  did  you  think?  That  I  would  want  to 
take  a  week  ashore  for  a  rest?"  I  said,  irritated  by 
his  tone.  "There's  no  rest  for  me  till  she's  out 
in  the  Indian  Ocean  and  not  much  of  it  even 
then." 

He  puffed  at  his  cigar  moodily,  as  if  transformed. 

"Yes.  That's  what  it  amounts  to,"  he  said  in  a 
musing  tone.  It  was  as  if  a  ponderous  curtain  had 
rolled  up  disclosing  an  unexpected  Captain  Giles. 
But  it  was  only  for  a  moment,  just  the  time  to  let 
him  add,  "Precious  little  rest  in  life  for  anybody. 
Better  not  think  of  it." 

We  rose,  left  the  hotel,  and  parted  from  each 
other  in  the  street  with  a  warm  handshake,  just  as 
he  began  to  interest  me  for  the  first  time  in  our 
intercourse. 


196  THE  SHADOW  LINE 

The  first  thing  I  saw  when  I  got  back  to  the  ship 
was  Ransome  on  the  quarter-deck  sitting  quietly 
on  his  neatly  lashed  sea-chest. 

I  beckoned  him  to  follow  me  into  the  saloon 
where  I  sat  down  to  write  a  letter  of  recommenda- 
tion for  him  to  a  man  I  knew  on  shore. 

When  finished  I  pushed  it  across  the  table.  "It 
may  be  of  some  good  to  you  when  you  leave  the 
hospital." 

He  took  it,  put  it  in  his  pocket.  His  eyes  were 
looking  away  from  me — nowhere.  His  face  was 
anxiously  set. 

"How  are  you  feeling  now?"  I  asked. 

"I  don't  feel  bad  now,  sir,"  he  answered  stiffly. 
"  But  I  am  afraid  of  its  coming  on.  .  .  ."  The 
wistful  smile  came  back  on  his  lips  for  a  mo- 
ment. "I — I  am  in  a  blue  fimk  about  my  heart, 
sir." 

I  approached  him  with  extended  hand.  His 
eyes  not  looking  at  me  had  a  strained  expres- 
sion. He  was  like  a  man  listening  for  a  warning 
call. 

"Won't  you  shake  hands,  Ransome?"  I  said 
gently. 

He  exclaimed,  flushed  up  dusky  red,  gave  my 
hand  a  hard  wrench — and  next  moment,  left  alone 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  197 

in  the  cabin,  I  listened  to  him  going  up  the  com- 
panion stairs  cautiously,  step  by  step,  in  mortal 
fear  of  starting  into  sudden  anger  our  common 
enemy  it  was  his  hard  fate  to  carry  consciously 
within  his  faithful  breast. 


THS  END 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW. 


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